


The Long Road Home

by Awahili



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post Season 7, canon compliant (at least through S7), what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-06 01:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18378503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Awahili/pseuds/Awahili
Summary: Follows Jaime's journey from his arrival in the North through the war against the dead and beyond. His reunion with Brienne is the only bright spot amidst a sea of mistrust and hate, and as he searches for where he fits in the new world he discovers there's really only one place for him - at her side.





	1. The Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me rather suddenly last week and I wanted to get it down before the premiere. I kept it to 7 chapters in total, one for each day until Season 8 begins.

Jaime stood in the center of the great hall of Winterfell, his sharp green eyes glued to the two figures seated on the high back chairs at the top of the dais. The last time he’d been here, the room had been filled with the sounds of a feast. Jaime could almost remember the boisterous noise of northmen laughing, happy for any excuse for good food and drink even if it meant putting up with an entire host of southerners. Now the room was as silent as a tomb, though the walls were lined from one end to the other with representatives of every noble house remaining in the North as well as the queen’s other allies. 

Jaime had entered the gates of Winterfell amidst whispers and stares. It didn’t bother him, he’d been expecting their animosity, but instead of being taken directly to Daenerys like he’d requested, one of the northern lords had ordered him seized and stripped of his weapon and golden hand. He’d been thrown into a cell despite protesting his treatment, claiming that he’d come with urgent news for the Queen and he needed an audience immediately. He’d been ignored. Jaime rallied for two hours, talking his poor guard nearly to insanity before two men dressed in heavy furs had come to let him out. They’d given a rather gruff, insincere apology about his treatment and declared that Queen Daenerys had requested his presence in the Great Hall. When they’d entered the cavernous room it was already packed with people, and Jaime endured the glares of the lesser lords and ladies as he strode by them with his head held high.

Toward the front of the room, the great houses of the North stood witness to the proceedings. Jaime recognized their banners, if not their faces. A young girl no older than twelve stood stoically beneath the black bear of the Mormonts. Jaime thought for a moment that she could have easily been sitting up on the dais given her poise and presence. The large man who’d imprisoned him stood on the other side of the hall, his banner proudly proclaiming him a Karstark. He stood behind a young woman not yet twenty, and though she held herself tall she didn’t impress Jaime quite as much as Lady Mormont. 

At the very end of the row, just beneath the stairs, sat the Stark siblings. Sansa sat at the end closest to the dais, her face impassive and inscrutable. Bran and Arya sat next to her, and of them only Bran’s face gave away his interest in the matters at hand. Standing just behind Sansa, like a shadow on the wall, stood a tall figure that Jaime knew all too well. He didn’t allow himself to linger, or to even catch her eye. He was here at the behest of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, and Jaime had no illusions about what might happen today. He just hoped Lady Brienne was sensible enough to keep quiet if the worst were to befall him.

On top of the dais sat the two figureheads, Queen Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow, King in the North. Or at least he had been. Jaime had heard rumors during his brief imprisonment that Jon Snow had bent the knee. Just behind the queen stood Tyrion, his face impassive but his eyes imploring Jaime not to do anything stupid. Well, he could try at least.

“They call you Kingslayer.” Daenerys’ voice was crisp and cool, carrying across the stone hall easily. 

Jaime swallowed and nodded. “They do, Your Grace.”

“Why?”

She knew of course - Jaime could see it in the way her eyes were bright and wild, like the fire that came on the wind with her dragons. He tried to forget the sounds of his men burning alive in their armor, the fear in every face as the realm got its first look at a dragon in hundreds of years. But she wanted him to say it, to admit to his sins in front of everyone. Jaime refused to be rattled by her game - he was a Lannister after all. 

“Because I slew the Mad King, Your Grace.”

The Dragon Queen’s face hardened slightly. “King Aerys, you mean.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“While a member of his Kingsguard, a group sworn to protect and obey him, you instead stuck your sword in his back. Into the back of my father. Tell me, Kingslayer,” she spat the title with as much venom as Jaime imagined her capable, “why I shouldn’t feed you to my children?”

Jaime imagined she’d hear no ill against her father, though a part of him was eager to detail just how mad Aerys had been. What was that old saying? _When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin._ Jaime could tell her every detail of his plan to burn King’s Landing to the ground, but that wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t change anything, and the past was dead. Nor would he grovel, beg mercy for an act he would gladly commit again if given the choice. So instead he looked to the future.

“The dead are at your door, Your Grace. I haven’t seen for myself, but I imagine their numbers far outmatch anything you can muster. You will need every able man and woman to defend the realm. I have come because I promised the North aid. Cersei isn’t coming, though I suspect you already knew that.”

Daenerys’ eyes cut sidelong toward her Hand. “Lord Tyrion told me that was a possibility, yes. We had hoped she would see reason.”

“Unfortunately, Cersei is beyond reason at this point. She believes in leaving the North to fight the dead, she’ll be able to conquer whichever side comes out on top.” 

“She is a fool.”

An old instinct rose up in defense of his sister, his other half, but just as quickly it was gone. The Cersei he had once loved was dead, leaving in its wake a woman that Jaime couldn’t even recognize. Still, he had nothing to add to her statement that would help his cause, so he remained silent.

After a few more long moments, Jon Snow stood. “If Cersei isn’t sending aid, then why are you here?”

Jaime had thought about everything on the long road to Winterfell. _Kingslayer_ , they had called him. _Oathbreaker_. He had been lying to himself for too long, telling himself and anyone who asked that it didn’t bother him. But he’d only had the truth for company on the cold, hard journey, and the truth had revealed so much to him. He knew what kind of man he wanted to be, and now he had the chance to do it. 

“I promised to fight for the living,” he spoke fiercely, and no one could deny the truth of his words. “I intend to keep that promise.”

“And we are to take the word of a man such as you? How can we trust you aren’t still loyal to your sister?” 

Jaime wasn’t sure who had spoken up, just that the voice had come from behind him. Refusing to turn and acknowledge the point, he kept his eyes on Snow. “I can understand why you wouldn’t trust me. I’m not entirely sure I would trust me either, if I were you. But I also know that you need every able-bodied person to defend the realm. This goes beyond loyalty; this is about survival. And I am here to help.” He didn’t bother swearing - it would do him no good now. There was only one person in the room who would believe him if he did, and she was likely already on his side anyway. 

Jaime remained alone in the center of the room, the subject of every pair of eyes. Finally the queen stood, a fluid motion that belied her youth despite the wisdom in her gaze. For a long moment she said nothing, and Jaime knew he was doomed. He clenched his jaw and resisted the suddenly overwhelming urge to glance at Lady Brienne. If he saw her now, those terribly blue eyes full of sorrow for him, he would lose his composure. Instead he met the icy gaze of the queen and silently accepted whatever judgment she would mete.

“Jaime Lannister. You come before us of your own free will?”

“I do, Your Grace.”

“And you are willing to sacrifice your life to protect the realm?”

“I am, Your Grace.”

The lines of her face hardened as she stared him down. “And will you bend the knee?”

At this, Jaime balked. His sudden silence sent a wave of murmurs through the room. But clearing his throat, he answered. “I will submit to whatever judgment or ruling you deem fit, Your Grace. But until the dead have gone back to their graves, I will not kneel.” He didn’t add that it wouldn’t matter anyway; no one would trust him to keep his word even if he did. But Jaime could see that Daenerys understood, though it made her no less furious. He hoped he hadn’t just sealed his own crypt.

“Then this is my ruling. You are to be stripped of all family possession and inheritances. Casterly Rock and the Westerlands are under my control. From this moment forward you hold no lands, no titles, save one. You are a Knight of the Realm, Ser, earned justly and no one - not even I - can take that from you. But you are and shall remain a landless knight, from this day until you swear fealty to me and mine.” She arched one delicate eyebrow. “You will keep your life for now. That judgment shall rest with my Warden of the North,” she gestured back toward Snow. “Rest assured that at the first hint of betrayal or deceit, I will not hesitate to feed you to my children myself.”

Jaime stood completely still, unable to quite believe what he’d heard. Some of the other lords gathered couldn’t either, and their dissentious murmurs were heard only for a moment. Then Jon Snow stood at his queen’s side and the hall fell silent once again.

“Ser Jaime,” he said. “I have heard tales of your battle prowess from your many enemies.” He said this last with just a hint of mockery, but Jaime didn’t react. “Should you prove yourself good to your word, we may have use for you. Until then, I will reserve my judgment.” He came down the steps quickly, and Jaime had to force himself to remain still and not take a step back from the ferocity in his eyes. This was no longer the boy Jaime had met at a feast all those years ago, headstrong and eager to prove himself. This man had been Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and King in the North. He knew his own power and Jaime saw it in every movement.

Jon reached into his pocket and withdrew a small scrap of dried meat. It had been torn at one end, as though chewed. He held it in one gloved hand, and Jaime stared down at the offering. Its meaning, of course, was not lost on anyone. Jaime quickly reached out and took it, tearing off a chunk with his teeth. It was too salty and too gamey, but Jaime chewed it quickly and swallowed. Jon turned and took his sister’s cup from the table, and Jaime didn’t hesitate when it was extended toward him. He took a long drink, nearly draining it. It had been too long since his last meal and his stomach protested the meager portions, but Jon seemed satisfied.

“Ser Jaime has been extended guest right in Winterfell. Anyone who violates this will be punished severely.” This time there were no murmurs, no whispers of disdain. The Warden of the North, it seemed, was unquestionable. The northmen respected their own, and though Daenerys had her dragons and the Unsullied, Jon had the North.

“Lord Cerwyn,” Jon glanced over at one of the men standing beneath a black battleaxe banner. “Please find Ser Jaime a bed. As he is a simple knight, I’m sure he’ll find the barracks comfortable enough.”

And that was it. The room bowed as one as Daenerys and Jon exited through the back hall. Jaime was ushered away by the rather burly men of Cerwyn, but before he was pushed out the door he stole one final glance back. He found Brienne standing against the far wall where she’d been for the entire ordeal. Even at a distance he could see the worry in her eyes, but he saw something else there as well, something that made his lips quirk ever so slightly.

It was pride.


	2. The Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few days after the dragon queen's reprieve, Jaime finally gets to talk to Brienne.

He spent his days preparing for the battle to come and his nights huddled in the far corner of the barracks trying to avoid speaking to anyone. He’d heard Tyrion had tried to track him down but Jaime had actively avoided his brother. Despite their sudden reunion in King’s Landing, feelings of anger and resentment still burned in him at the memory of how their father had died. Tywin Lannister had been a hard man, for sure, but he hadn’t deserved that. Jaime wasn’t certain how he would react upon seeing his little brother again, and so he erred on the side of caution. Best not to anger the Dragon Queen further by harming her Hand.

Those that did come to see him were few and far between, and none of them had been her. Hers was the only face he longed to see, if only to gaze upon eyes that didn’t immediately condemn him just for existing. But Brienne stayed away, and Jaime told himself that it was her duties that made it so rather than any conscious desire on her part. _Probably for the best_ , he told himself. He’d already risked so much by coming here; better her reputation and honor not be marred by his presence. 

As he settled into a routine, Jaime found that his natural charm and charisma did, in fact, win some people over. They weren’t much, hedge knights and hardy smallfolk, but it was nice to have a small group he could at least trust not to kill him in his sleep. They even managed to share tales at meal time, the young men eager to hear about Jaime’s glorious battles during his time in the Kingsguard. He was careful not to mention anything too controversial, lest he be labeled a rouser. He kept it mostly to the minor battles, those moments when his blood sang with the thrill of victory. 

It was on one such night that a small group of wildfolk from the other side of camp finally made their way over to gaze upon the infamous Kingslayer. Their leader, a rather robust ginger with wide eyes and a long face plopped himself down right next to Jaime mid-meal, almost upending the bowl in his hand.

“So this is the sisterfucker,” he proclaimed loudly. “Here to throw yourself at the dead in shame?”

“No,” Jaime refused to rise to the bait. “I’m here to fight, same as you.”

The wildling laughed uproariously as he turned to his men. “Same as me, he says. This southern cunt thinks he’s the same as me. Me? I’ve killed hundreds of crows, and gone up against the dead at Hardhome and Eastwatch. Tell me, _Ser Jaime_ ,” he sneered, “how you could even kill a lamb with that.” With his good hand holding the bowl of stew, Jaime had no defense when the other man suddenly reached out and gripped the stump of his right arm. He winced against the stab of pain that lanced through him but didn’t flinch.

“Let him go, Tormund.”

Jaime startled at her voice, and his bowl tumbled to the ground, spilling its contents on the muddy sludge around the fire. Brienne stood just at the edge of the firelight, her tall frame covered neck to toes in mail and fur. Her cheeks and ears were red with cold, but her eyes were fierce as they stared hard at the wildling and his men.

Tormund, for his part, looked almost _flustered_ at her sudden presence. He scrambled to his feet with a broad grin, his arms outstretched. “There she is! My big woman!”

Something dangerous and brutal flashed across Jaime’s mind and he stood abruptly. Tormund didn’t seem to notice. The wild man took a step toward her as though expecting an embrace, or at least a friendly pat on the back. Instead, Brienne checked him with her shoulder and he slammed into the wall. Undeterred, Tormund regained his balance and brushed himself off.

“I enjoy a woman who isn’t afraid to throw her weight around. We’ve got time for a tussle or two in the yard before second watch.”

“How many times must I tell you,” Brienne enunciated slowly, as though Tormund were a small child. “I’m. Not. Interested.”

Tormund just grinned. “Until next time, my lady.” It was clear from his rather awkward bow that he was mocking manners rather than trying to emulate them. Then he was gone, hustling away amid the rabble of his wildling friends. The area was eerily quiet after their departure, and Jaime realized that everyone else had fled as well. He wondered if that had been because of Tormund’s arrival or Brienne’s. 

Unable to stand the silence any longer, Jaime inclined his head. “Lady Brienne.”

She returned his formality with one of her own. “Ser Jaime.” Then, because she couldn’t seem to think of anything to say, she added, “How are you?”

Jaime chuckled. “I still have my head and I haven’t been fed to one of those flying beasts yet, so it’s a good day.” She seemed upset by his words, and Jaime felt that oh so familiar flicker of _something_ in his gut whenever her brow furrowed just so. “What troubles you?”

Her eyes caught his then, and he saw the truth of her next words in them. “You,” she told him plainly. “I am worried about you.”

That drew a full laugh from him, and her brow furrowed further. “Your concern is touching, my lady, but unworthy. I am lucky to still be alive, it’s true. But beyond that…” he let his words trail off, unwilling to voice what he believed to be true. It would be a miracle if he survived the first skirmish against the dead, much less made it out of the other end of this war alive. 

Brienne stepped forward, a strange look in her eye. “You can’t say that. No matter what happens, Ser Jaime, please promise me you will not be rash.” Then as if realizing how she sounded, she drew herself up. “Your experience on the battlefield will be sorely needed if we intend to win.”

Jaime had no doubts that the former King in the North would leave him to rot in the snow before allowing him to command any northern troops. Not that those northmen would listen to him anyway, no matter what Snow said. Jaime’s only hope was to keep his head down long enough to maybe do something good before the Stranger came for him. But he knew Brienne wouldn’t hear it, and so he acquiesced.

“As my lady commands,” he intoned. “I promise I have every intention of fighting tooth and nail to survive. But the odds are not in our favor. Surely you have seen that?”

She nodded. “Those dragons will certainly even the field.”

“And yet rumors say the Night King has one of his own.” Jaime had heard the men talking about it the other day. One man claimed to have survived the assault at Eastwatch, and the way he recounted the devastation of the ice dragon had made Jaime shiver from more than just the cold.

Brienne glanced around uncomfortably, as though just realizing they were alone. She cleared her throat and took a step back. “I should let you finish your meal,” she said. “I am glad you are here, Ser Jaime.”

Like most of their conversations, Jaime could hear everything she wasn’t saying and it warmed him better than any fire could. Though tenuous and fragile at times, Jaime knew without a doubt that whatever he and Brienne shared was something wholly unique and precious. He also knew she was more skittish than a wild foal and let her retreat for now. “I am glad as well, Lady Brienne. Until next time.”

“Good night.” She disappeared into the darkness, leaving Jaime alone with his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I'm not a huge fan of Dany and her entourage. My predictions for the series end is Jon on the throne with Davos as Hand, Sansa commanding the North with Arya, Bran either beyond the Wall as the Three-Eyed Raven or dead, Tyrion the Lord of the Rock, and Jaime and Brienne on Tarth or in service to Sansa. 
> 
> That having been said, this story took on a shape of its own and somehow Daenerys ended up a little less mad and bit more likable (especially in a later chapter). Unfortunately, anyone who is staunchly anti-Targaryen probably will not like how this turns out. I do hope you stick around, because who sits on the throne is really just a backdrop to the Jaime/Brienne storyline -- which is the main focus of this work. 
> 
> I do want to thank those of you that have left kudos or comments.


	3. The Summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is summoned to the War Room.

Seven days after his arrival in Winterfell, a young lad of about nine came up to him with quick steps and a nervous smile just as he finished his meager dinner of stew and stale bread. He held out a small roll of parchment in one hand, and though he wouldn’t look Jaime in the face he still stole glances at the knight out of the corner of his eye. 

Jaime took the small scroll but didn’t unroll it. “What this, lad?”

“A summons, ser. From Lord Snow.” And he was off. Jaime watched him dart between men’s legs, his nimble feet slicing a neat path through the masses. He was fast, at least. Jaime hoped that would be enough to save him when the war came to their front door.

The summons was simple, and Jaime followed its directions to a low stone building at the corner of the estate. While the great hall had been adorned with banners and chairs to befit a throne room, this was where the real work was being done. The main fixture in the room was the large rectangular table that stretched down the center. A mockup of Westeros took up most of the tabletop, with clusters of wolf and dragon tokens scattered about the topmost part. Beyond them, the Wall had been erected and a hundred small, white figures placed at the easternmost end. Jaime took a moment to revel in the familiarity of a war room. This he knew. This he was good at.

Lord Snow stood at the head of the war table, Queen Daenerys at his right side. Tyrion stood with them and the three seemed to be talking in quiet tones about something, though there was enough chatter in the room that Jaime couldn’t hear. On Jon’s other side stood Lady Sansa, looking every bit as regal as her brother. She had her back to the door as she addressed Brienne and her younger sister, Arya. Jaime could hardly believe that both girls had made it home despite all the odds stacked against them and allowed himself a small victory at the sight. It was one vow kept, at least. 

“Ser Jaime, my lord.” The young man at the door was tall and gangly, his limbs long and thin. Jaime sized him up fairly quickly and guessed he was being trained as an archer, given the size and strength in his forearms and shoulders.

Jon looked up from his work and nodded for Jaime to come closer. He did.

“You have been with us a week,” Jon said. “You’ve seen our forces. What have you to say about our chances?”

 _You’re fucked_ , he wanted to say. Instead, he glanced down at table and sighed. “I’m not sure, my lord. Having never fought the dead, I can’t tell you how they think. Are they smart enough to wait us out? Our supplies won’t last forever.”

He paused. “No, they won’t. And the Night King is smart enough to lay siege, though I suspect his intent is to overwhelm us with numbers.”

Jaime looked up. “How many?”

“That’s precisely what we want to know. We intend to send a small scouting group northeast, toward the Gift. The Night King’s forces broke through the Wall at Eastwatch. That is where the dead will be coming from. We need to know how far away they are, and how many.”

It was a smart move, if a deadly one. Jaime wondered what poor soul had been chosen for the sacrificial mission. 

“Lady Brienne volunteered to take a small group to assess their position and strength,” Jon continued, and Jaime froze. He looked sharply over to where she was standing, but she resolutely refused to look at him. “And since we know Valyrian steel is deadly to the White Walkers, I thought two swords might be better than one. Provided, of course, you can still use it as well with your left hand.” Jon gestured toward the side table where his own sword, Widow’s Wail, lay still within its scabbard. 

“You want me to accompany her,” Jaime said. There was no question, because he knew they would not ask. They would demand. And if he refused, they would kill him. 

“You, Lady Brienne, her squire and Jorren Umber,” Jon confirmed. “The Last Hearth is the Umber family home, and Jorren is the new Lord Umber’s uncle. He knows the area better than anyone. You’re to assess the situation and report back. Nothing more.” Jaime hesitated for only a moment before nodding his consent. Jon didn’t quite smile, but his scowl seemed less severe. “Good. You will leave at first light.”

Jaime caught Brienne as she made her way past him to the door. “You volunteered?” He kept his voice low so as not to draw attention, but Brienne glanced around sharply anyway.

“I was also the one who suggested they send you as well.”

“Oh, thank you for that, wench,” he hissed. “I was afraid my death would never come. Now I get to ride out and meet it.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she sighed. “This is your chance to prove yourself.”

Jaime gritted his teeth. “I’ve got nothing to prove, not to them.”

Brienne’s eyes softened just a fraction, but it was enough to drive the fight from him. “Then prove it to yourself. You’re a good man, Ser Jaime.” 

Jaime reeled in the face of her raw honesty. His usually quick wit seemed to have abandoned him for the moment, so he settled for a small jest. “So you keep telling me.”

“And I will keep telling you until you believe it.” He wasn’t sure who was more surprised by her words, but they both stood completely still in the middle of the war room for several long moments. Then she cleared her throat. “Permit me to help with your scabbard, Ser?”

Jaime could only nod. She moved over to where Widow’s Wail had been laid rather unceremoniously on a wooden table, as though it were merely an ornament rather than a deadly weapon. Wordlessly she strapped it to his hip, securing it snugly on his right side. It still felt odd there, even after all these years, but he was grateful for its familiar weight. Brienne’s hands brushed over his hips as she adjusted the belt and Jaime clenched his jaw against the sudden swell of heat that rose within him. When she was finished she stepped back, standing much further away than she had been before. 

“I hope that is satisfactory.”

Jaime felt her discomfort mirrored within himself. It was odd, this feeling, and it unsettled him, so he fell back on the familiarity of his sharp tongue, hoping to quell the uneasy churning in his chest.

“Is that a blush on your cheeks, my lady, or is the cold that stains them pink? Or perhaps you are a woman after all? You certainly haven’t begun dressing as one.”

Her eyes grew as dark as dragonglass and she straightened. He felt awful the moment the words escaped him, but once said they could not be unsaid. He silently cursed his bitterness as he watched what was perhaps his only friend in the world close herself away from him. She never moved, but Jaime felt the shift in the room as clear as if she had turned her back. Then she did.

“My la-” he started. Then, just as softly, “Brienne.”

“I understand why you do it,” her voice was as cold as steel, and he hated it, hated himself for it. “You wear your mockery like armor, and your tongue is sharper than either of the blades on our hips. They both serve you well, it’s just…” She took a deep breath that raised her shoulders, then let it out in one long sigh. “I had hoped we had moved past such cruelties, at least when we’re alone.”

Jaime closed the distance separating them in three strides, his only hand reaching out to take hers. She tried to pull away but for once he was stronger, holding onto her wrist despite her attempt to put space between them again. 

“Forgive me,” he implored. "I have been off balance these past few weeks, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I have wronged you from the moment we met, and now more deeply than I can ever repay.”

At this she turned her head, though Jaime noted she didn’t not try to remove her fingers from his grasp. “You have never said anything I haven’t heard before. I told you before, words are wind; they don’t matter.”

“They do matter when they come from me.” He tugged her to turn fully and face him. “From this day on, you will not hear a cruel word from me, my lady. I swear it.” He raised their joined hands to his lips, brushing them against the back of her knuckles in a soft promise. In the well-lit war room, he could see the surprise and a hint of fear in her eyes. He knew what she was afraid of; he feared it, too. Yet it remained unspoken.

“We need to prepare to leave in the morning,” she said finally, snatching her fingers from his and angling to step around him. Jaime let her go, well aware he’d probably pushed her enough today. But he took her embarrassment as a good sign; if the lady was not interested in him, he would have no doubt received a similar rebuke to the one she’d given the wildling fellow that night they had first spoken.

Jaime was well aware of his own steadily rising feelings for the Maid of Tarth. The farther he’d gotten from King’s Landing and Cersei’s control, the more _she_ had invaded his thoughts until, when he’d crossed the Neck and saw the battlements of Winterfell rise up from the whitened landscape, she was all he could think of. Still, he’d known the chances of his immediate execution were still very likely, and so he’d promised himself to push those thoughts aside. He was not worthy of her, especially now as a knight with no family name, no lands, no title or security to offer her. Still, she occupied his heart and his mind during the quiet moments, and he was grateful that their friendship seemed to have remained intact despite all of the hardships they’d faced in the last few years. Perhaps on the slim chance they both survived the Long Night, he could remain at her side for the rest of his days, even if just as her companion and friend. It was more than he deserved, he knew, but he couldn’t help but hope for more.

He shook himself out his thoughts, berating himself for the distraction. He would need all of his wits about him if he wanted to survive this scouting mission. He didn’t relish the thought of going out into that biting cold, but he had little choice. So he focused his mind on the task ahead and sent a prayer up to the Warrior to protect them.  



	4. The Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne go out on a scouting mission to find out where the Night King's Army is. Things don't go as planned.

They had camped two nights before they arrived at the Long Lake. Jaime hadn’t thought it possible for it to be colder than Winterfell, but as they rode northeast toward the Gift the icy wind began to seep into his very bones. He could feel himself shivering despite the layers of furs and wool he’d been given, thicker and warmer than the tattered ones he’d first acquired on arrival. 

“There’s a lookout tower up ahead,” Jorren Umber called. They came to a halt and dismounted, leaving the horses to forage from the sparse trees that hadn’t yet succumbed completely to winter’s grasp. They walked in a single file line up the hill ahead, Jaime positioned between Umber and Podrick. Brienne was in the rear, her sharp eyes on the lookout for any ambush that might surprise them from behind. Jorren wasn’t quite as broad as Jaime had remembered the Lord of the Last Hearth to be. Greatjon had lived up to his name, and even his son, Smalljon, had rivaled the Hound in size and stature. But while Jorren still possessed the height of the Umbers, he was thin and wiry. His long legs allowed him to move through the knee deep snow with ease, and Jaime tried to follow in the troughs he made. 

His left hand ached to draw his sword, but he hesitated. He couldn’t risk dropping it in the snow or letting it slow him down should they need to run. A special buckler had been fashioned for him by Winterfell’s blacksmith, a strong young man named Gendry. Jaime felt a faint sense of recognition as the dark-haired boy explained how it worked. His golden hand had long since been traded out for a steel one, shaped in a fist for striking if he needed and fitted over his entire forearm, complete with slots for the buckler. It hung from his arm now, just in case; it would take too long to secure in the midst of combat.

The lookout was little more than a pair of wooden towers connected by a bridge that overlooked the now frozen lake. They climbed the only set of stairs set against the northern tower as quietly as possible, their steps crunching in the white powder at their feet. Jorren Umber pulled a long tube from his sack, a scope, according to the Snow’s rotund friend from the Citadel. He raised it to his eyes and surveyed the land beyond as Jaime, Podrick and Brienne kept their eyes on the immediate area. Podrick held two torches in his hands, prepped for a quick lighting should the dead catch them unawares. Fire was an effective tool, Jon Snow had told them. Jaime hoped they wouldn’t need it.

“Fuck me.” Umber’s breath rose in a white cloud just beyond his face, and when he heaved a sigh it looked like he could breathe fire. “The dead have made it farther than we thought,” he told them. “They’ve taken the Hearth.”

“Let me see.” Jaime stepped up and took the scope from him. He held it to his eye with his good hand, blinking to adjust to the distorted view in one eye. He closed his other to focus on what lay just beyond and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Thousands upon thousands of corpses stood still, their dead features staring lifelessly out toward the south. Jaime sucked in a sharp breath and winced in pain as it stabbed his lungs. His fingers shook when he handed the scope to Brienne, though she was polite enough not to mention it.

“Gods,” Jaime breathed. “There are so many of them.”

“Twenty thousand,” Brienne agreed. “Probably more. But no sign of the Night King or his dragon.”

Jaime looked up briefly, as though he expected to see the horrific visage of an undead dragon roaring down upon them. But the skies remained empty save for the rolling gray clouds that were ever-present these days.

Umber took the scope to confirm Brienne’s estimate. “Why aren’t they moving?”

Jaime shuddered as he recalled the dead stare of the wights though the scope. For as long as he lived he would remember the frozen corpses staring back at him, though he was sure they couldn’t actually see him, not from this distance. At least he hoped they couldn’t.

“I’m not sure,” Brienne said, “but we should return to Winterfell. It will be dark soon and we should put some distance between us and them before we make camp.”

Jaime agreed. As cold as the day was, the night was something else altogether. At Winterfell, he avoided stepping foot outside past sundown for fear of being frozen on the spot. So far they’d been lucky to find sheltered areas to hunker down in away from the deadly wind, but if they didn’t go now they wouldn’t make it back to their last campsite before nightfall. Umber stowed the scope and turned to lead the way down the steps. His cry of surprise made them all turn. 

Dozens of wights stood at the base of the stairs, their empty eyes somehow hungry and desperate. Podrick hurriedly set to lighting the torches as the other three drew their swords. Jaime felt Brienne behind him and to his right, just beyond his elbow. Silence reigned for one heartbeat...two....three. Jaime tightened his hold on Widow’s Wail and waited. They would have to let the dead attack first; bottlenecking them on the stairs was the only way they could hope to survive this. 

Then the dead came.

Podrick had barely gotten his torches lit in time. Jaime sliced down at the first one to reach the top as the lad thrust his fiery spear at it. It screeched and fell back, its dry, tattered scraps of clothing catching easily. It fell toward the snow below and extinguished, but Jaime didn’t have time to see if it stayed down. Brienne had followed Jaime’s attack with her own, knocking the next two back into the horde behind it. 

“We need to find the Walker!” she cried. “If we kill it, they’ll all die.”

Jorren Umber took the task upon himself with a mighty war cry. He dashed across the bridge to meet the small group of wights that had climbed up the second tower. Jaime lost sight of him as the group at the base of the stairs began to attack in earnest. Jaime had to fall back behind Brienne once, lashing out at a wight who had climbed the outside of their tower and leaped over the wooden rail. Two more appeared behind it, and suddenly they were surrounded. In his panic, Podrick dropped a torch and drew his sword. Jaime watched the flame tumble down and land on the base of one of the tower struts. To his horror the timber crackled and caught fire, and Jaime felt panic rise in his own throat. They were going to die.

Still they fought their way through the dead, his sword and Brienne’s singing in harmony as the Valyrian steel slid through their ranks like they weren’t there. At one point, Jaime had to leave her side to rescue Pod, who had been backed into a smoky corner by two wights. Jaime struck them down and shoved the boy toward the stairs, which were littered with the now still corpses. The flames had already begun climbing up the towers, and the wooden structures creaked and complained at the weight that now threatened to collapse them. He glanced back to call for Brienne, but in her battle lust she’d begun hacking her way across the bridge in search for Umber. 

“No!” He cried. “Come back!”

She reached the other side just as the bridge finally gave out, crashing to the ground below in a mass of burning wood and fallen wights. Jaime cursed aloud and pulled Pod down the steps with him. They needed to get out of here. The fire would no doubt alert the Night King’s forces to their whereabouts; they needed to get back to Winterfell.

At the base of the second tower, Jaime found Jorren Umber being ravaged by six wights. He reeled only for a moment before slicing through them, hacking them to pieces even as they continued to devour their prey. Umber’s face was gone, the white bone of his skull easily visible beneath the meat and blood that had been eaten away. He quickly took Pod’s torch and thrust it at the body, remembering Jon’s warning should any of them fall. Jaime had looked at Brienne then, each silently promising the other to do what had to be done to keep either of them from coming back as one of the Night King’s servants.

“We need to get to Lady Brienne!” Pod called. Jaime looked up at the tower to where she was still fighting. None of the walking corpses could get close to her as she swung Oathkeeper in a wide arc to keep them at bay. Jaime prayed she could hold them off a little longer.

“Brienne!” Jaime called. “You have to jump!” It was a thirty foot drop to the ground, but the snow would cushion her fall. There were no more wights in the area, so Jaime guessed their Walker had either left them or was lying in wait. “Pod, go get the horses ready. We’ll be right behind you.”

The boy took off as fast as his legs could carry him through the tracks they’d made on their arrival. Jaime kept eyes on him until he disappeared over the hill, then he turned his attention to Brienne. There were still half a dozen wights on the tower with her, though they’d abandoned their swarm tactic for a series of probes at her defense. She would tire eventually, and Jaime would be forced to watch her succumb. Something terrible seized in his chest and he knew that he would either save her now or die trying. He would not leave her.

“Hey!” He yelled and waved his buckler, hoping to pull at least a few of them away from her. But the roar of the inferno that had engulfed the towers muffled his shout. In a few moments the entire thing would come down, and Brienne would be lost in the flaming wreckage. He needed to get her off the tower now.

Her cry of pain stole his breath and he watched her flinch to one side, her sword arm dropping as one of the wight’s claws tore through her sleeve into her flesh. The others were on her the moment she lowered her weapon and Jaime roared. He lashed out with Widow’s Wail and took out the two supports on the outside of the tower. It teetered precipitously before tilting, then it fell. Jaime dashed to where Brienne was clutching the outer rail, and he leaped through the flames to slam into her, sending both of them clear of the wreckage as it crashed down behind them. They rolled, both blades tumbling from their grasps as the remaining wights were trapped in the flames. 

Jaime groaned as he pulled himself out of the snow. Brienne lay unmoving beside him. Her face and neck were covered in shallow cuts and gashes from the wights’ claws, and for a moment he thought he was too late. Then she blinked, then moaned, and Jaime heaved a sigh of relief. It was short lived as Brienne exploded out of the snow, knocking him back. Her bright blue eyes were wild and for half a second Jaime feared the worst. Then she was past him, her left hand gripping the hilt of Widow’s Wail before slicing upward in a vicious arc. The White Walker who had finally appeared didn’t have time to react, and its body shattered into a thousand crystal shards. 

For several long seconds the only sound was the crackling of the flaming ruin behind them. Brienne’s grip on the sword faltered, and it fell to the snow a second before she did. Jaime surged forward and gathered her to him.

“Brienne? _Brienne!_ ” He plucked the glove of his left hand off with his teeth and felt deep within her furs for her heartbeat. It was there, steady but not as strong as he liked. He pulled her large frame into his lap and cradled her head against his chest. Bent over her like this, he couldn’t resist pressing his lips into her hair, cursing her brashness and pleading with her to hang on in the same breath. After a few seconds he knew he had to get them up and moving. He stood, leaving her in the snow for a few precious seconds as he retrieved their swords. Widow’s Wail he sheathed on his hip, but Oathkeeper would prove to be a larger problem. Using his belt as a makeshift scabbard, he slid the blade next to its sister and hoped it didn’t cut through his trousers. Then he stooped to grip Brienne’s arm with his good hand. He was already losing feeling in his fingers, but there was no way to get the glove back on without help. He would have to do this quickly. 

“This would be much easier if you were conscious, my lady.” He knew he had to hurry. Though the fire was beginning to burn out, there was no way the horde of undead at the Last Hearth hadn’t seen it. They would at least be sending a scouting party, and Jaime had no idea how fast they moved in deep snow. 

He thought briefly about throwing her over his shoulder, but there was no way he could manage the task alone and one handed. This seemed impossible, but he wouldn’t leave her here alone to go get the horses. Cursing, he set to removing the buckler from his arm. Once it was free he set it strap side up in the snow. 

With great effort, he hauled her off the ground just enough to get his right arm under her shoulders. He lifted her up and set her backside on the buckler then held her up by kneeling behind her, supporting her weight as he caught his breath. It hurt each time he inhaled, but he had to get them out of here before more wights came. With a sigh he stood, wrapping his good arm under one of hers and grabbing her belt at the opposite hip. She was heavy, but with her resting on the buckler he could drag her awkwardly back down the hill. He slipped twice, and once nearly lost control of her, but he managed to right himself before she was injured further. 

“Just a little more, Brienne. We’ll get you back to Winterfell.” Ever since the Long Night had come, the sun hadn’t been seen in the North. Thick rolling clouds covered every inch of the sky from horizon to horizon, but it was still possible to distinguish night and day. Based on the way the gray of the clouds was darkening to black, Jaime guessed it wouldn’t be long before they could no longer see where they were going. 

“Podrick!” Once they were close enough, Jaime called for the lad’s assistance. Between the two of them, they managed to get Brienne situated backwards on Jaime’s horse. She teetered unsteadily, but the boy held her up while Jaime mounted and took her weight against his body. Pod had lashed the other two horses to his own, intent on leading them back to Winterfell. Times like these, they couldn’t afford to lose a good steed (and potential source of food) to the cold if it could be helped. Jaime wondered if they’d be able to keep up with what was sure to be a grueling pace.

They rode as hard and far as they could without Jaime losing his hold on Brienne. Both her armor and his made it difficult for him to keep her steady, but he kept his right arm wrapped firmly around her waist to hold her fast against him while his left hand manipulated the reins. Normally she would have been too tall for him to see over her shoulder, but with her head slumped forward into the crook of his neck he had no trouble steering his horse toward their destination. Each time she took a breath he felt it on his skin and he thanked the gods for every one of them.

The first night Jaime had wrapped Brienne in his own cloak as well as hers and huddled as close to the fire as he could without getting singed. Pod had brought the horses close and they used them for extra warmth to combat the deadly chill. Jaime didn’t sleep at all, his attention split between her shallow breathing and the darkness beyond the edge of the firelight. He had purposefully found a spot where they could hide a fire from anyone coming from the north. He had no idea why the dead weren’t advancing, but he couldn’t worry about that now. The cold had kept her wounds from bleeding too much but she was feverish, too, and Jaime prayed that infection hadn’t set in. 

They broke camp at soon as the sky turned from black to gray. Jaime instructed Pod to feed the horses a bit of extra grain to lighten their load and to keep up their strength. He was pushing their limits, he knew, and for the second day of riding they traded out for the fresher ones, letting his and Pod’s rest with no burden to carry. He was unfamiliar with the territory, so he had no idea how far they were from Winterfell, but they were covering the ground at a much faster pace than they had coming out. If they were lucky, they could reach the gates by nightfall.

He kept up a litany of prayers and pleas for her as they ate the remaining distance to Winterfell with no sound but the thunder of hoofbeats in snow. It was after dark when they arrived, and Jaime could no longer feel the wind on his face. It was a miracle he’d managed to hold onto the reins with his hand numb from the cold.

“Open the gates!” He roared as they approached the portcullis. He slowed only a fraction as the iron gates raised, and he thundered into the courtyard barking orders at the gawkers that had gathered. He glanced back long enough to make sure Pod had made it inside the walls before he slid out of the saddle and pulled Brienne with him. Two of the night guards helped him carry her to her rooms, and by the time they arrived two girls were already filling her tub with steaming water. 

Jaime ordered the men to lay her on the bed as he began attacking the laces on her boots with his numb fingers. The two guards left to inform Lord Snow of their return as the stout boy from the Citadel bustled in. Jaime’s good hand began to ache fiercely as the fire in the hearth restored his circulation. 

The maester shooed Jaime away and ordered him to get warm as the ladies that had filled the tub turned their attentions to Brienne’s clothing. Jaime took a step back toward the fire but went no further. She was pale as a ghost and her blonde hair was frozen in straw-like chunks of ice that were slowly thawing. She didn’t move despite the three people working her out of her clothes and cleaning her wounds, and that scared Jaime more than anything. 

“You need to go get warm,” the maester - a Tarly, Jaime remembered suddenly - said over his shoulder.

“I’m not leaving until I know she won’t -” He couldn’t get the word _die_ to pass his lips, and it burned in his throat like acid. 

“She’ll be fine,” Tarly pressed. “But you’ll catch your death in those wet clothes.”

Jaime nodded and turned toward the door, but the moment he touched the handle Brienne woke and thrashed in the bed. Her eyes were open but unseeing, feverish as she swung at her perceived assailants savagely. The two ladies barely made it out of the way of her fists, but Tarly wasn’t so lucky. Brienne’s blow connected with his jaw and sent him sprawling as Brienne fought against the restraint of clothes that had only been partially removed. Jaime moved back to the bed and reached across her to lay his hand on her shoulder.

“Brienne! It’s alright! You’re safe. We’re in Winterfell.” He kept up a string of reassurances until she settled down, her bright blue eyes still wild but not quite as dangerous. Tarly had regained his feet, though Jaime noticed he hovered just out of reach as he clutched the side of his face in pain. 

“I’ll go fetch -”

“Leave us.” Jaime barely glanced over his shoulder, but he saw the shocked expression his order provoked. “We will be fine. Just go, and make sure no one disturbs her. She needs to rest.”

The two girls had already left, and Tarly only hesitated a moment before retreating. “Get her warm before you put her in the bath. If you warm her up too quickly, she could seize.” And then he was gone.

Jaime wasted no time. He turned and threw the furs over Brienne’s body as he furiously removed his cloak and outer layers. Once down to a simply tunic and breeches, he moved to the bed. Her eyes were still fluttering, and when he pressed his fingers against her neck he felt her heart racing. Her skin was ice cold and he knew he had to do something.

“Forgive me, my lady.” He lifted the corner of the fur and slid in next to her, using his good arm to gather her to him. He hissed as she settled fully against him, her icy skin sucking his body heat even through the layers separating them. While beneath the covers he quickly removed her wet breeches and tunic, stripping her down to her small clothes. With the warmth returning to her, the deepest injury on her right arm was beginning to seep. Tarly had left strips of cloth on a tray next to the bed, but he wouldn’t be able to put them on until the wound was cleaned. 

After several long moments Brienne started to stir, and her head turned toward his as she moaned softly. “Jaime?” Her skin was warmer now, though still too pale for his liking. Her eyes, though still unfocused, seemed to be more aware as she blinked in the dim firelight.

“I’m here,” he promised, ignoring the way his own heartbeat jumped at her familiar use of his name. “We need to get you into the bath. Can you stand?”

She nodded once and Jaime slipped from the bed to come around. She was already sitting, though when she tried to stand she swayed violently. Jaime caught her, and for a brief, traitorous moment his mind and body relished the feel of her so firmly pressed against him. Her arms were banded about his shoulders as tightly as she could muster which, to his dread, wasn’t terribly strong. His own hand was holding her around the middle while his shorter right arm pressed in between her shoulder blades.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Can you step out of your smallclothes?”

It was a testament to their friendship and her unwavering trust in him that she only hesitated for a moment. Then, with a strength he hadn’t thought her capable of, she took her own weight and peeled off the last of her clothing. That small move seemed to sap her remaining energy and Jaime wasn’t surprised when she leaned heavily on him again.

It took some work, but he managed to take most of her weight until she was in the water. Her right arm was wrapped around his neck, and his left arm supported her as he eased her back against the metal tub. They were only a few feet from the fire, and Jaime could feel the warmth from the flames licking at his face and neck as he leaned over her.

“You need to submerge as much as possible,” he told her. “I won’t let you drown.” 

Reluctantly she released her hold on him, letting her right arm fall with a splash into the now only warm water. Jaime wondered how long it would take for the bath to grow cold. He hoped he could get her warmed up before he would need to pull her out. If he waited too long, all of his efforts to warm her up would be lost in the chill of the tepid water.

Once she had sunk to her chin Jaime knelt down next to the tub. He slid his left arm around the edge of it behind her and held her chin up gently with the palm of his hand. This position left almost no space between them, but Brienne didn’t seem to be bothered. He watched as the color slowly came back to her cheeks, and when her eyes fluttered again it was more exhaustion than shock. Still, she managed to grip a washcloth firmly enough to scrub her wounds clean as Jaime steadfastly stared anywhere but the full expanse of creamy white flesh before him. Once she was finished, Brienne set the washcloth on the rim of the tub and settled back. Slowly, the rippling of the water faded away, leaving only the crackling of the fire to fill the silence. She seemed to be waiting for him, and Jaime realized that she was likely coherent enough now to be experiencing embarrassment at her predicament. 

“You scared me,” he admitted in the stillness of the empty room, mostly to help take her mind off of just how naked she was, but partly to keep it from bouncing around in his head. “I saw you surrounded by those... _things_ and there was nothing I could do.”

“But you did,” she drawled slowly, the heat from the fire and the events of the day all finally catching up to her. “You saved me, Ser Jaime.”

“Lady Brienne,” he urged quietly, shifting his arm behind her neck to remind her of their proximity. “I think at this point in our friendship we can dispense with the formalities.” He thought he saw the ghost of a smile pulling at her wide lips, but she said nothing in return. “It’s time to get out of the water. It’s cooling.” He made sure she could hold her head up before standing to fetch the cloth draped on a hook near the fire. He draped it over his right arm before reaching down to help her sit up, then stand. The water sloshed over the edge of the tub as she did, the drops splashing on Jaime’s bare feet. He hadn’t really noticed before, but the stones where the rugs didn’t quite reach weren’t ice cold as he expected them to be. He vaguely recalled Tyrion mentioning something about hot springs beneath the castle the last time they were here, but he hadn’t really been paying attention. Now, though, he was thankful for the warmth.

He shuffled quickly to wrap the cloth over her broad shoulders and let her lean her weight on him as she stepped out of the tub. She managed to shuffle back to bed mostly under her own power, but the moment she laid down all of her strength seemed to leave her. Jaime wrapped her in a blanket first, then a heavy fur. He would need to retrieve an extra blanket for her from somewhere; she needed to stay warm.

A soft knock on the door startled him, and he glared at it for a moment before calling for the intruder to enter. Jon Snow ducked through the door, followed quickly by Lady Sansa. If either of them seemed surprised to find him standing next to Brienne’s bed with her clearly naked beneath the covers and him in his simple breeches and tunic, they didn’t show it.

“How is she?” Snow asked.

“Resting,” Jaime reported. “We were ambushed.”

“Podrick told us everything,” Sansa said curtly. “He said you saved her life.”

Jaime shrugged. “I regret that I was unable to save Lord Jorren’s as well.”

Snow stared at him hard as if assessing the truth of his words. Jaime let him look. Finally, the man nodded. “How long before the dead arrive?”

“If we’re lucky, three days.”

Snow sighed. “We’ll begin preparations immediately. Get some rest. We will all need it.” And then he left.

Sansa lingered for a moment, as if she was unsure about leaving Brienne in the care of a man. Or perhaps it was just him she was wary of - Jaime couldn’t tell. Her eyes roamed the room before falling on the table where Jaime had left their swords. Sansa moved over and ran her fingers over the hilt of Oathkeeper, then of Widow’s Wail. She had a look in her eye that Jaime couldn’t quite read, though he could guess where her thoughts had strayed. The last time she’d laid eyes on that blade, it had been in the hands of Joffrey. 

“Do you know why he chose its name, Widow’s Wail?” she asked suddenly.

Jaime remembered the day vaguely. Those first few after his return to King’s Landing had blurred together, but he did recall the feast of presents and Joffrey’s rather exuberant display of swordsmanship. “I imagine he thought it clever,” Jaime said carefully.

“Clever,” Sansa parroted. “Yes, he did think himself clever. But he wasn’t. He was just cruel.” She reached in with both hands and pulled the blade from his scabbard. She examined the blood red sheen of the Valyrian steel like she was a smith born to it. Jaime could only watch. “Such an ugly name for such a beautiful blade. Perhaps once this is all over, we can find a new name for it.” She turned and slid it back home before facing Jaime. “Take care of her, Ser Jaime. We will need you both in the coming battle.”

Once Sansa was gone, Jaime settled down in a chair next to Brienne’s bed. Now that she was warm and clean, he set to wrapping her arm carefully but snugly. He stayed long enough to make sure she was sleeping soundly before moving over to the table. He spent almost an hour cleaning both blades thoroughly. Valyrian steel never needed sharpening, so once Jaime was satisfied that he’d rid them of any traces of their enemies’ dessicated flesh he put them both back in their scabbards and turned toward the bed.

For half a second he thought about it. It wouldn’t take much to slip onto the sheets next to her, to pull her firmly to him and hold her through the night. Gods knew he wouldn’t get much sleep himself tonight; the image of her being swarmed by the dead would haunt his dreams for years to come. It would be easier to bear if, upon waking, he was reminded immediately of her safety.

Then, just as fast at the thought came, it disappeared. She deserved far more than the empty promises he could give her, and he would do nothing to harm her honor or reputation any more than he already had. He picked up her wet clothes and laid them out on the rug in front of the fire before gathering his own furs and outerwear. His sleeping pallet was located on the far side of the keep, a straw mat tucked into the back of the barracks that housed the knights from the lesser houses. He didn’t relish putting his wet things back on to trudge out into the freezing night, but there was no way he would allow himself to be seen exiting Brienne’s room in little more than his smallclothes. 

Conflicted, he laid his things out next to hers and settled back into the chair by her bed. He wouldn’t get any sort of restful sleep there, but it was better than any alternative he could come up with. Besides, he reasoned with himself, Sansa had told him to look after her. He laid his head back against the stone wall behind him and let himself doze off to the comforting sounds of Brienne’s steady, deep breaths.

http://people-loving-stone.tumblr.com/image/180601725449

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter - and subsequently the entire fic - was inspired by a lovely piece of Jaime/Brienne fanart by Tumblr user people-loving-stone (found at the link above.)
> 
> As someone who cannot even draw the most simple things, I am in awe of anyone with such talent.


	5. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime struggles to figure out how he fits into this new world after the Great Battle ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter is the one that has gone through the most revisions. I'm still not 100% happy with it, but I think, for what this story is, it's the best version of itself.

The dead arrived in two days. The war lasted six. 

Thousands died on the first day as the Night King’s forces assaulted Winterfell’s defenses relentlessly. Daenerys lost another dragon on the third day - the nimble Rhaegal had sacrificed himself to destroy the icy husk that had once been his brother. On the sixth day, just when the battle seemed lost, the dead too many to count, a horn sounded on the crest of the hill. Banners of every color fluttered in the icy breeze atop it, but there was one at the fore that Jaime rejoiced upon seeing. Moons and suns quartered, waving proudly as Lord Selwyn Tarth led the Houses of the Stormlands into the fray. With the bolster in numbers and morale, the combined forces of four kingdoms, the Wildlings, a Dothraki horde and a host of Unsullied managed to beat back the dead long enough for them to regroup and redouble their efforts. Jon Snow himself landed the deciding blow to the Night King, shattering his body and thus destroying every remaining walker on the field. The wights themselves became nothing more than the dead things they had been, and the field was suddenly strewn with thousands more corpses. 

The abrupt end left everyone stunned, and for a moment no one spoke. Then a great cry of triumph rose from the throat of one of the Dothraki and soon it was joined by every man and woman on the field. It was deafening, and Jaime reveled for a moment in the feel of victory. His blood still pumped furiously through veins, warming him against the sharp cold that surrounded him, and he was taken aback at the brotherly hugs that were bestowed upon him by the soldiers around him. Wildlings, the soldiers from the Stormlands, even some Dothraki embraced him in the throes of joy and relief that had blanketed the field. And then he set off at a run, slicing through the throngs of celebrators in search of her. She had been put on their more vulnerable side, leading an entire host of northmen and Vale soldiers. It was likely she didn’t even know how or why they’d managed to turn the tide.

 _If she’d survived that long_ , his mind supplied. He cursed that voice and silenced it with a snarl. He could not dare to think about that now, not when he’d managed to emerge with his own life. That would be a cruel trick of the gods indeed, allowing him to live while taking her. The snow slowed him down, as did the revelries that had erupted on the field. He pushed and shoved, heedless of who was in his way as he fought toward the front of the crowd. He passed countless bodies, men and women who had succumbed to the wights, but he never looked down. He couldn’t. If she had fallen, he didn’t want to be the one to find her. It was selfish of him, but he couldn’t bear to be the one to carry her cold body to her father.

“Jaime!”

Her call was like birdsong to his ears, sweet and relieving. It was hope, Spring come early, and he whirled around. She crashed into him in the next second, her arms banding around his neck as she embraced him with the fervor and passion of a victorious knight. He held on, burying his cold nose into her warm neck and thanking the gods for it.

“You’re alive. _Brienne_.” He breathed her name over and over into her neck before pushing her back to make sure his words were true. “You’re alive.”

“You sound surprised, Ser. You doubted me?” 

There was a glint in her brilliant blue eyes that he had never seen in them before, though it was one he knew well. She was _teasing_ him, and he gaped at her incredulously. Then a laugh bubbled up in him so fierce he had to toss his head back and let it out lest it burst through his throat. She joined him, doubled over with fits as they giggled like children. Then he gathered her to him again and chuckled into her icy hair. 

“Never,” he whispered. “Never, my lady.”

The news of her father’s arrival shocked her, and Jaime didn’t blame her for leaving his arms in search of him. Jaime followed her, pushing his way through the masses of men toward the keep. Chaos was everywhere in the aftermath as the dead were collected and friends and family reunited in the aftermath. Jaime tried to ignore them, keeping his sharp eyes on the towering figure a few strides ahead of him. 

Lord Selwyn Tarth was coordinating with one of his men when they walked through the gates and into the courtyard. The oddest sound Jaime had ever heard erupted from Brienne, and with a start he realized it was a sob. She was crying. Her father turned at her call and met her halfway in a crushing hug. He was half a head taller than his daughter, and his white hair was unkempt and wild from the battle. He held Brienne to him with equal parts fierceness and tenderness. She had never looked more like a young maid than in that moment, and it made Jaime uncomfortable to be witness to such a private moment. It was short-lived, however, when Lord Cerwyn emerged from the great hall and announced that the Queen had requested the heads of every noble house to attend her in one hour’s time. 

The message was quickly passed through the grounds, and in less than an hour the room was filled with men, women and their banners, though there were less than there had been before. Some had been injured too grievously to be allowed to attend, others would never make it home. Still, anyone who could make it was there, some leaning on their family, others sitting in chairs that had been brought from the antechambers. Jaime snuck in and remained in the back, huddled behind the lesser lords of the Vale in an effort to find out what happened next.

Both looked weary, but when Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen emerged there was no doubting the pride and relief on their faces. They had won, and the realm was safe. When they made the announcement, the cheer that went up was so loud it shook the stones around them. When it faded, the queen spoke again.

“With the dead defeated, our attention must turn to reuniting our realm. There is something we have learned that we must now share with you. Brandon Stark has seen it in his visions, and Maester Tarly has read it in the annals at the Citadel in Old Town.” She paused as though gathering her thoughts before continuing. “Jon Snow isn’t the bastard of Ned Stark. His name is Aegon Targaryen, and he is the youngest son of Rhaegar Targaryen, my eldest brother.”

Cries of surprise and denials sprang up, particularly from the northern lords. One man even stepped up to protest, but he was silenced by Jon himself raising his hands and calling for silence.

“What the queen says is true. The man who I knew as my father, Ned Stark, was in fact my uncle. His sister, Lyanna, was wed to Rhaegar Targaryen in a secret ceremony after the annulment of his marriage to Elia Martell.” He looked over at the three Starks who had been, up to this point, his siblings. “I could not have asked for a better, more noble family, and I am grateful to them for taking me in. In my heart, Ned Stark will always be my father, but I cannot deny my blood. Based on the laws of succession, the Iron Throne is mine by right.” A cry of approval went up, but it died quickly when Jon - _Aegon?_ \- called for silence once more.

“However, I have no wish to rule. I have had my taste of it, seen what it does to people, and I will have no part in it. Once we have taken King’s Landing, I will take my place at court as the queen’s protector and Lord Commander. But I will not sit on the Iron Throne.”

The murmurs grew into a full blown clamor of impassioned voices. Daenerys let it go on for a moment longer, then she called for order. She didn’t get it. Drogon roared from somewhere overhead. The hall fell silent.

“As I understand it, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and so shall it remain. Lady Sansa will inherit her father’s home and titles, as is her birthright. She will serve me as Lady Paramount and Wardeness of the North.” The murmurs from the northern lords were less dissentious at this announcement, though a few still seemed to be mulling over these new developments.

Then Jon Snow stepped to the front of the dais and unsheathed Longclaw. “All hail Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. Long may she reign!”

“Long may she reign!” The echoing chant was clear and full. Jaime added his voice to it. Then, one by one, Daenerys called forth each northern house to officially bend the knee and swear fealty. None resisted.

The Lords of the Riverlands were next, including Edmure Tully, recently released from his captivity at Casterly Rock by the Unsullied forces. He was name Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and restored to his rightful place at Riverrun and promised aid in rebuilding his lands and his bannermen.

Edmure was followed by the Knights of the Vale, the most senior of them acting in Lord Robin’s stead via a missive they’d received a week ago. The austere man bent the knee and recited the words formally, though Jaime felt no meaning behind them. He wondered if the dragon queen noticed as well. The Lords of the Vale had stood by during the War of the Five Kings, only joining the fray when Sansa had requested their assistance on behalf of her cousin. They would need to be watched carefully.

Finally, Daenerys Stormborn turned her keen eyes on their newest allies.

“Lord Selwyn of House Tarth, step forward.” Jaime watched as the towering, silver-haired man squeezed his daughter’s hand before stepping to the middle of the room to face Daenerys and Jon Snow. He bowed in turn to each of them, straightening as the queen raised her chin. “Words cannot express our gratitude for your assistance,” she began. “When it seemed the realm was lost, the Lords of the Stormlands arrived and turned the tide of battle. Our victory is owed in no small part to you, Lord Selwyn, and what you have done here today will never be forgotten.” 

The Lord of Tarth accepted her thanks graciously, and when Jaime managed to sneak a glance at Brienne she was very nearly beaming with pride. Likewise, the other Stormlords’ chests were puffed out, preening as they accepted the hearty thumps of gratitude and praise of those around them. Then, at the queen’s command, Lord Selwyn drew his sword and knelt, reciting the ancient oath of fealty.

“Lord Selwyn,” Daenerys continued when he was finished, “for your valiant service to the realm, I hereby appoint you Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, with all of the rights and responsibilities that entails. The noble houses of the Stormlands are under your command, Ser, for as long as your remain a loyal and steadfast vassal. If there is any boon I can grant you, please ask it of me.”

Selwyn stood and sheathed his sword, clearing his throat with a low cough. “Thank you, Your Grace. As Lord of the Stormlands, and your humble servant, I do have a single request.”

The queen looked surprised but accommodating. “Name it.”

“I request that my ancestral home of Tarth be bequeathed to my daughter and sole heir, Brienne of Tarth, until such time as my death requires her to take my place.”

Daenerys looked at the Maid of Tarth expectantly. “Lady Brienne, step forward.” She did, kneeling next to her father briefly before rising to her feet to stand at his side. “I sense you are conflicted about this?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Brienne stuttered only slightly, unused to being at the center of everyone’s attention. “I am sworn to Lady Sansa. I vowed to serve her, and I intend to do so for as long as she requires.” It was clear (to Jaime, at least) that Brienne wanted nothing more than to go home with her father, but her honor wouldn’t let her abandon her responsibilities.

Sansa was standing just at the base of the stairs with her brother and sister. At Brienne’s words she took a step forward. “Lady Brienne, you have served my family honorably. You swore an oath to my mother to return my sister and I home. I release you from your vow fulfilled. Words cannot express our gratitude for your service. You will always be welcome at my home and at my table.”

Brienne nodded solemnly. “Thank you, my lady.” Then, to the queen she said, “I have been a warrior all of my life, even when no one would accept it of me. I have been serving others for so long, but now I think I wish to return home and serve my family. I will accept my father’s request, if you will allow it, Your Grace.” It was the most anyone -- excepting Jaime -- had ever heard the Maid of Tarth speak at once, and he could tell some of the lesser lords were impressed, or at least appeared so. He was torn between being proud of her and wanting to sneer at them for their obsequious behavior. No doubt many of them were already plotting how to get to her, how to increase their own standing by aligning themselves with Tarth’s new Lady. The thought soured Jaime’s happiness and he sulked in the shadows near the door.

Daenerys dipped her chin once in acquiescence to Brienne’s request. “It is done. Tarth is yours to rule, Lady Brienne. Serve it and me well.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” If anyone had an issue with Brienne’s new status as the Evenstar, they remained quiet. 

One by one, the Lords of the Stormlands were called forward to bend the knee and swear fealty to their new Lord and the queen. Jaime couldn’t take his eyes off of Brienne, who had returned to the Tarth banner looking more sure of herself than he’d ever seen. One mousy man with white whiskers running down the sides of his face leaned over and whispered something to her. She gave him a flat smile in return, then a nod. He looked pleased. Jaime glared daggers at the man until the Dragon Queen spoke again.

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” she called. “Step forward.”

The murmurs began immediately, most notably from the Stormlords who hadn’t realized the Kingslayer was among them. Still, Jaime gathered himself up, ignored them and stepped through the crowd to stand once more at the center of the great hall. The Queen stared down at him from her lofty position, clearly ready to accept one more oath of fealty. Jaime was still uncertain. 

Instead of the queen’s demand, however, it was Jon Snow who spoke to him first. “I have heard reports from the men,” he began, “about your prowess on the field. You took charge of the field when their leader was cut down and held the ridge. You slew a White Walker single-handedly.” At this he paused, sending a hard glare at the lords who had dared to snicker at his word choice. “Forgive me, my lord” he went on. “It was not meant as a jest. You have seemed to have proven yourself good to your word, Ser Jaime, and for that we owe you a debt. In repayment, your crimes against our houses have been forgiven. Your life is yours, Ser Jaime. Live it well.”

The proclamation was met with mixed reaction, but Jaime could only feel a sudden relief. Then the moment he had been dreading came, and Daenerys stood.

“Ser Jaime, you understand what must happen now?”

Jaime swallowed and nodded. “You will march on King’s Landing.”

“Your sister will be given the same opportunity given each lord here today,” Daenerys offered. “If she bends the knee, I will allow her to live out the rest of her days on Casterly Rock.”

 _A pretty prison_ , Jaime thought, _but a prison nonetheless_. Aloud, he said, “She will not yield.” He knew that as sure as he knew his own name. Cersei would never surrender. She would die on that gods-forsaken throne. 

“Then you have two choices. You can bend the knee and swear upon your life that you will not aid your sister in any capacity. If you do this, and you betray me, my vengeance will be swift. I do not handle treason lightly, and my only remaining child is very hungry after such a battle.” Her threat did little to cow Jaime, but he said nothing. “Or you may throw yourself at the mercy of my new Wardeness of the North spend the next weeks in Winterfell’s cells to ensure you will not interfere. Then, after I have taken the throne, I will decide your fate.”

The prospect of kneeling before either dragon or wolf did not appeal to him. He was still a lion, no matter what the Targaryen girl said. He knew all of the lords and ladies assembled were waiting anxiously for the golden son of Tywin Lannister to bend the knee, to submit and bring himself low. It rankled, and instinct almost made him proclaim in front of everyone that he would not bind himself to anyone, not wolf nor dragon, no lord or lady. Jaime had, in a rather ironic display of stubbornness, promised himself that he was through with meaningless vows.

But, on the other hand, Jaime did not want to experience the unpleasantness of the cells in the middle of winter. The assault on the capital would take weeks, perhaps months. He didn’t relish the thought of becoming a Stark prisoner once again. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone shift, then again. Jaime glanced over to find Brienne’s brilliant blue eyes fixed on him. They were full of worry for him, silently pleading with him to be careful and to do the right thing. It had been so long since anyone believed enough in him to know what that was. Even Jaime sometimes didn’t trust himself to make the right decision, but he didn’t trust anyone else to make it either. If he bent the knee, Daenerys could give him to any of the men present to serve however she saw fit. How could he know that whichever of the men present who became his new liege lord wouldn’t ask something horrible of him? None of them could be trusted with his honor, meager though it was.

_That’s not entirely true._

An idea struck him then, one to rival even Tyrion’s greatest schemes. It seemed so absurd that he couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought, earning him a reproving glare from the queen. But once it came to him it wouldn’t leave, and it only took Jaime a few more precious seconds to come to a decision. Unsheathing his sword, he turned sharply to his right, took three steps and knelt. A ripple of shocked whispers erupted around him as he set the blade of Widow’s Wail across his right arm in supplication.

“Lady Brienne, I offer to you my services. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and I will give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” With his head bent all he could see were her muddy boots, but she was as still as death and he knew his choice had shocked her. But, Jaime reasoned, swearing allegiance to a Great House - as Tarth had suddenly become - was as good as swearing fealty to the crown, so long as the House remained loyal to it.

He could imagine Brienne’s expression, though he didn’t look up. She was likely glaring at him, angry for putting her once more at the center of attention and for, at least peripherally, his perceived rudeness toward the queen. 

Then, slowly at first but gradually gaining confidence, she answered. “And I vow,” she said, “that you shall always have a place...a place by my hearth.” She paused, as though remembering the words. Jaime guessed it was likely the first time she’d been on this end of the vow. “And meat and mead at my table,” she continued. “And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” Jaime still couldn’t see her face, but as she spoke these last words he thought he heard her voice waver ever so slightly, as though she was holding back great emotion. _You are the only one I would trust with my honor,_ he wanted to tell her. But now was not the time for such words.

Upon completion of the oath, Jaime stood and sheathed his sword. Brienne stared at him for several long seconds, then nodded. Jaime answered it with one of his own before turning back toward the queen with a stiff bow.

“I will do as my lady commands.” He spoke with the authority of his birthright, though that right had technically been stripped from him. Then, with as much sincerity as he could muster, he added, “I will do what is necessary for the good of the realm.” Then he took his new place at Brienne’s back and fell silent. He noted out of the corner of his eye that the wiry man who had been conversing with Brienne before was keeping his distance. _Good_ , he thought. _Let them stay there_.

After a few more words from the queen, she dismissed them to rest and recover. King’s Landing, she’d said, would still be there when they were ready. Almost the moment Daenerys and Jon Snow left, Brienne rounded on him.

“What in the name of the gods are you doing?” she hissed. She was magnificent in her anger, her cheeks flushed and her eyes blazing.

Jaime opened his mouth to respond, but the appearance of Lord Selwyn brought him up short. “Brienne,” the former Evenstar rumbled, “I would like to speak with you and your new swornsword in private.”

Jaime saw the tips of Brienne’s ears flush pink and he stifled a smile. Dutifully he followed her and her father to her room in the castle. Jaime tried not to stare at the bloodstained bandages that she had abandoned when the call to arms sounded. He wondered how her arm was faring and if she’d even changed the bandages or left them off. 

Selwyn closed the door behind him as Brienne turned to face him. Jaime had never seen her so meek and he didn’t like it. She was acting demure and subdued under the silent scrutiny of her father and it twisted something in his gut.

When Selwyn finally did speak, however, it was Jaime he addressed. “You were out there on the flank when we arrived,” he began. Jaime noted his speech, like Brienne’s, was careful and measured. But where hers was due to her discomfort in social situations, her father’s held a note of purposeful authority that came with practice. Selwyn was not a man to be taken lightly, or for a fool. Jaime would need to tread carefully.

“Yes, my lord,” he said, mindful of his precarious position but speaking with the confidence of a battle-seasoned knight. “I had almost given up hope when the horn sounded. If I may ask, how did you come to learn of the battle, Ser?”

Selwyn paused, as though weighing something in his mind, before answering. “I have a man in the capital,” was all he said.

Jaime wouldn’t have cared if The Spider himself was working for him. “I was glad to see your banners,” he admitted with more than a hint of admiration. 

Selwyn did not preen. Instead he kept his gaze riveted on Jaime’s face, as though he was still searching for something he could not yet find. “I did not recognize you.” Jaime wasn’t sure if this was meant as a compliment or a slight. He chose to remain silent. “Nor did I see any Westerland banners on the field.”

 _So it would be an inquisition then_. “Unfortunately, a large host of my family’s bannermen were routed on the Goldroad by the queen’s forces. Whatever remains is in King’s Landing under the command of my sister.”

Selwyn nodded. “And yet, here you are. Why?”

“Because I gave my word that I would fight the dead to save the realm. My sister, on the other hand, wasn’t terribly keen on keeping her word. She abandoned the North to their fate and planned on overtaking whichever army remained.” Jaime wondered how long it would take for her to learn what had happened here. When she did, she would no doubt fortify the city in preparation for an attack. Jaime knew it wouldn’t matter; Daenerys might only have one dragon left, but it was enough to burn the Red Keep to the ground.

“So you turned your back on your family, on your house and all of the oaths you swore.” Selwyn was a hard man to read, even for someone as practiced as Jaime. It was difficult to tell what his goal was, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Brienne shift uncomfortably. He doubted her father would be amused by Brienne’s rather vehement response when Jaime had refused to do the very thing Lord Selwyn was accusing him of. _Fuck loyalty indeed_.

“I gave my word,” Jaime repeated. “And the safety of the realm is far more important than remaining loyal to a madwoman who would sacrifice me and anyone else to further her own twisted agenda. Cersei became someone else when she seized the throne; whatever remains of my family, it is here in Winterfell.”

He had meant Tyrion, of course, but he couldn’t help but hold his breath for a moment as Selwyn’s piercing blue eyes - _Brienne’s eyes_ \- cut over to his daughter. Then he straightened and, with just a hint of mischief, he said, “Your actions in the great hall caught everyone unawares. The Lion of Lannister swearing loyalty to a lesser House? What would your father say?”

Jaime wasn’t surprised at his bluntness - he would expect nothing less from Brienne’s father. “He would have disowned me, had Queen Daenerys not done it first. By her decree, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock are no more.”

Selwyn raised one silver eyebrow. “You don’t seem upset about it.”

“There are more important things to worry about, or at least there were,” Jaime replied. Then, sensing that there was something the new Lord of the Stormlands wasn’t saying, he added, “If my allegiance causes you distress, Ser, you can absolve me of my vow right now. That is within your right as Lady Brienne’s father and liege lord.”

“I am just curious about your intentions for my daughter, Ser.”

“Father!” It was the first time Brienne had spoken, and though it was a single word she managed to put more anger, irritation and embarrassment in those two syllables than Jaime had ever heard. Something hardened in Selwyn’s gaze and Jaime knew immediately why the man was being so stubborn.

“My intentions are quite simple, Lord Selwyn. I will fight by her side, and shield her back as she has shielded mine. I will keep her counsel, though we both know she’s likely too stubborn and will do what she wants anyway.” Brienne scowled at him, and he continued before she could interject. “And, if the need arises, I will lay down my life to ensure her safety. You don’t know much about me, beyond the stories they tell in taverns. But Lady Brienne is likely the truest friend I have ever known, and I owe her a debt far greater than any that can be repaid by gold."

Selwyn stared hard at him for a few more moments, and Jaime half-expected Brienne to start berating them both for their rather boorish, overbearing behavior. But she stayed silent, due no doubt in part to the presence of her father. He was an imposing man, but no one could deny the love he held for his only child. Now that he was a Lord Paramount, she would not speak a word against him. Jaime, on the other hand, was not looking forward to the lashing she was likely to give him when they were alone again.

After a few more moments of tense silence, Selwyn finally relented. His stance softened slightly and he smiled briefly at Brienne before looking at Jaime once more. “I never did thank you properly for your raven all those years ago. It was a relief to know that my daughter escaped from Roose Bolton’s men.”

Jaime remembered sending the raven from the roost in King’s Landing as soon as he was cleaned and fed properly. The last Selwyn Tarth had heard of Brienne, she had been taken as a hostage by Locke. He’d offered 300 gold dragons for her safe return, but that missive had gone unanswered. Jaime hadn’t wanted the man to worry. He said so, trying to ignore the way Brienne was now staring at him with a look he couldn’t quite decipher. 

“I was glad to hear of it,” Selwyn affirmed. “Though at the time it did concern me that it was you who had sent the raven. I can see now that my apprehension regarding the situation was misplaced. You are not at all as I expected you to be, Ser Jaime, and I am glad for it. You have proven yourself a true friend to my daughter and we welcome your service.”

Jaime dipped his chin in deference, then smirked at Brienne. “I shall take my leave, if it pleases you, my lady. I’m sure you would like to catch up with your lord father.” He bowed deeply to her, waited for her curt nod, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This mostly came about from me wondering, "What happened to all of those Baratheon bannermen after they abandoned Stannis?" The more I thought about it, the more I really thought this would be an interesting twist. I intentionally did not detail the long and gruesome battle because I didn't want the chapter to get bogged down.


	6. The Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime experiences a rare moment of calm and receives a gift he never expected.

Two days later, Jaime was summoned to the war room, along with Lady Brienne. He dreaded every step that brought him closer, sure that Daenerys and Jon Snow would ask him to lay out the defenses of King’s Landing so they could assault the city. He had sworn not to interfere in their plans, and he knew that they couldn’t leave Cersei to her machinations. Not if they wanted to unite the seven kingdoms again. But something about _helping_ them plan his sister’s downfall stuck like a thorn in his paw. His stomach rolled as they opened the door. 

The warmth of the roaring fire crackling and spitting in the fireplace on the back wall chased away the lingering chill of the morning. He followed Brienne into the long room, surprised to not see it filled with the usual envoy of queer men and women that seemed to trail behind the dragon queen. Instead, she sat alone in a large armchair near the fire, attended only by Tyrion. Jaime’s brother was passing her a goblet of something - probably wine, if Jaime knew Tyrion - before settling in a matching chair. On the right side of the room, Jon Snow stood with Sansa talking in low tones. As Brienne entered, followed quickly by Jaime, they quieted and turned. Sansa looked pleased with herself, which made Jaime nervous. In his experience, whenever a woman had that look in her eye something unpleasant was about to happen.

“Ah, here you are.” At Jon’s words, both Queen Daenerys and Tyrion stood from their chairs and joined them. 

Brienne sketched a short bow and Jaime followed suit, but left the talking to her. “Your Grace,” she bowed to Daenerys, then greeted the others. “You summoned us?”

“Yes,” Daenerys took over quickly, stepping around Jon to stand before them. She was shorter than Jaime remembered. Perhaps it was the fur-lined dress she wore, or perhaps now that the Great War was over she didn’t have the weight of an entire kingdom and its people resting on her shoulders. At least, for the moment. “We have a...conundrum we thought the two of you could help us solve.”

 _Here it comes_ , Jaime thought. She was going to ask the impossible of him, and he would have to help else he wind up a midnight snack for a ravenous dragon.

“Draw your sword, Ser Jaime.” The request from Lady Sansa caught him off guard. He blinked owlishly for a moment, then she repeated her request. He did. Widow’s Wail sang quietly as he pulled it from his scabbard. The single plum-sized ruby set into the hit just above the crossguard caught the flames and seemed to glow with an internal energy all its own. The crossguard itself - a pair of lion’s paws - extended out on either side. The hilt itself was wrapped delicately in red leather, and Jaime’s hand gripped it reflexively as he held the weapon out to Sansa.

It was Jon who reached out and took it, raising it up to his eyes to examine the sword. His lips quirked in a smile Jaime knew well; it was the look any swordsman worth his training got when in the presence of a well-forged blade. Jon stepped back and, after ensuring he had enough space, spun it around in his hand once, then twice. 

“A beautiful weapon,” he commented finally. “But a terrible name.”

Jaime glanced at Sansa, suddenly realizing the cause of her sly smile. Their conversation from days ago sprang back into his mind and he wondered again the reason for their summons.

“Widow’s Wail,” Tyrion confirmed. “Named by my nephew, Joffrey, just before his wedding.”

“Widow’s Wail,” Daenerys echoed distastefully. “How horrid. And hardly befitting someone of your...skill, Ser Jaime.”

“It should be changed,” Jon agreed.

“Can that be done?” Brienne asked suddenly. “I-I mean,” she stammered, clearly aware of how blunt she had been, “has it been done before?”

Jon offered the sword back to Jaime hilt first. “I would have to ask Sam,” he said, “but I don’t think so.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Sansa declared. “So what do we think?”

Which was how Jaime found himself in the incredibly ridiculous situation of sitting around the war table, sipping his brother’s new favorite wine of the week, discussing sword names with the unlikeliest of companions.

“I’m not sure which is a worse name, actually,” Tyrion drawled after his third cup, “Widow’s Wail or Lady Forlorn.”

“Lady Forlorn?” Daenerys asked, and Jaime was reminded again that she’d grown up across the Narrow Sea away from the breadth of history that belonged to her people. Now that she was not in the throes of battle or wavering between trusting him and executing him, Jaime could see just how young she really was. Younger than Brienne, maybe even younger than Jon. He didn’t dare ask. Instead, he focused on her question.

“The sword of House Corbray,” Jaime explained with a grin. “That one I know.”

Tyrion tipped his cup toward his brother. “Only because the knight who reclaimed it for the Corbrays was named Ser Jaime. Otherwise you couldn’t be bothered with learning history.”

“I just never had a knack for it like you, dear brother.” It felt good to be like this, at ease and among friends. _Well_ , Jaime thought, _at least not enemies_. It had been too long since he’d felt so relaxed, and it had little to do with the Volantis Red in his hand. Even Brienne looked less stern and more soft in this light, and Jaime caught himself staring. 

“So,” Sansa sat up straighter. “Ser Jaime, what do you think we should name it?”

Jaime shrugged one shoulder. “I am open to suggestions, my lady.”

For almost an hour they bounced around potential names from the dramatic _Deathsbane_ to the more plain _Honor_ (this last was suggested by Brienne, who then proceeded to blush the most brilliant shade of scarlet before hiding behind her cup). Finally, in a beat of silence, it was Sansa who found the answer.

“Lion’s Paw.”

Jaime felt a bolt of emotion lance through him and he felt tears sting his eyes, though he blinked them back quickly. He glanced at Daenerys, curious about her reaction. It had been her who had stripped him of his family rights and titles; would she allow him to keep this last remnant of who he once was?

She smiled. “It’s perfect.” She stood up, handed her half empty goblet to Jon and reached for the blade. Jaime handed it to her gently, wondering what she had planned.

Holding it with both hands, she raised it out in front of her and faced the fire. “ _Ondoso se ānogar hen zaldrīzoti hen uepa valyrio, nyke brōzi ao. Ao issi daor skoros ao istan. Hen bisa tubis naejot, kesā sagon brōztagon Lion’s Paw._ ”

Jaime listened to the High Valyrian roll off her tongue like a melody. He’d never heard it spoken aloud before. It sounded so strange and yet so right from the mouth of the last Targaryen. _Not the last_ , he reminded himself, glancing over at Jon. The man was smitten, Jaime could tell, and he wondered idly if the old Targaryen traditions would be continued when Daenerys took the throne. Protector or no, the queen would need an heir.

When she was finished with what sounded like some sort of consecration, she turned and offered the sword hilt out to him. Jaime took it, holding it aloft as if for the first time. Nothing had changed about the blade, but somehow it felt different, lighter than it had before. It no longer held the shadow of cruelty that had accompanied its foul name, and Jaime nodded his thanks as he slid it home into the scabbard.

Tyrion broke the tenuous silence by topping up everyone’s cups with the last of the wine. “Now that the blessing is over with, it’s time for a toast.” No one had the heart to deny him, not when their spirits seemed so high, and when he raised his goblet they all did the same. “To Lion’s Paw, may she serve the realm as nobly as her bearer.”

Jaime’s voice joined the others in salute as they acknowledged Tyrion’s words, though it took him a moment to collect himself enough to take a drink. Was this what it was supposed to be like, he wondered? His long tenure on the Kingsguard had put him side by side with the greatest warriors in all of Westeros. He had learned much from the likes of Ser Barristan Selmy, but Jaime had never really enjoyed his time there. It had been a means to an end, done more to spite his father than to fulfill any dream he’d had. He hated King’s Landing, and almost all of the people in it, but it had been all he’d known for over twenty years. Riding away from it had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, especially since his fate had been quite uncertain at the time. But here he’d not only found some form of absolution and redemption, but those around him now genuinely seemed to enjoy his presence and valued his input. It was a heady feeling, one he never wanted to end.

Jaime was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to add his own tribute. He raised his glass as the others waited expectantly for his words. “To peace,” he said simply. 

“Peace,” was the answering echo.

Jaime hoped it would last for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used the book description of Widow's Wail, rather than the show depiction, for those wondering.
> 
> This was the chapter I loved the most, but also the one that feels, I don't know, maybe too fluffy? Please let me know in the comments if it rings true for you or if it feels too off.
> 
> Next chapter is a bit longer and will wrap it up for this fic. I'm debating whether to write a sequel or not. Let me know your thoughts on that as well. Thank you to everyone who has read this little labor of mine, and a special shout out to those of you who have taken the time to leave even just a few words. Feedback is greatly appreciated!


	7. The New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the fighting finally over and the war for the throne won, Jaime settles into his new place as Brienne's swornsword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this was inspired by something NCW said in an interview. Here's hoping for a "new beginning" for Jaime, rather than an end.

Jaime had been grateful when Brienne decided to accompany her father and the other Stormlords back to White Harbor rather than aid the host of men that marched toward King’s Landing. Their fleet had put in there and covered the distance to Winterfell on foot, and when they returned to the port the people sent up a great cheer. Jaime kept his head down, unsure if anyone in these parts would even recognize him now but unwilling to take the chance. Once they were safely back on Lord Selwyn’s ship, _The Sapphire Star_ , Jaime finally let out a sigh. And then they set sail, aiming their fleet and the rest of the Targaryen ships southward to assault Euron Greyjoy’s forces.

The old kraken put up a hell of a fight. So many ships were lost on both sides, but Selwyn had been prepared for a hard battle. Jaime often heard him speaking quietly with his daughter, talking about holding out just a little longer. “One more day,” he’d say, “and then we will see victory.”

The remainder of the Dorne fleet arrived the next morning, and Greyjoy had no escape. Selwyn offered a parley to give the Ironborn a chance to surrender. He refused. Jaime watched his ship sink beneath the dark blue waves and wondered if his Drowned God would meet him here on the Narrow Sea. He hoped not. 

The Golden Company had earned their gold, and many Dothraki died fighting them, but Drogon and his mother bolstered morale for the mounted horde as his breath cut fiery swaths through the mercenaries’ ranks. Listening to the words of her advisors, Daenerys never turned her dragon on the Red Keep. A large group of men from the North, the Vale and the Riverlands led by Jon took the city in a mere day.

Jaime had been right about Cersei; power and greed had driven her mad. Jon tried to keep the fighting away from the commoners as much as possible, but the moment Cersei realized this she sent her troops out into every part of the city to wage war. Jaime guessed she had been trying to turn the people against the new queen, but it had backfired. The commoners of King’s Landing far outnumbered the remaining Lannister forces that had bolstered the city guard. Armed with implements of their trade, they swarmed the smaller armed forces and declared for the Dragon Queen by waving red and black banners from every rooftop and window. Cersei knew she was lost, and her last act was to order the Mountain to kill Qyburn and then her before tossing himself into the bay. 

News of Daenerys’ victory reached them as they put into Storm’s End. The missive told them to return home and await the queen’s summons, and so Selwyn was occupied replacing the dusty old stag banners with his own and organizing his new bannermen. Brienne and her father’s former vassals would make for Tarth soon to shore up and recuperate while the new queen settled the realm into its new normal. 

Jaime spent the first day wandering around the abandoned keep, its cold walls his only company as he grieved for his sister. He came to a large guest room with a balcony overlooking Shipbreaker’s Bay and stepped out onto it. The familiar sound of waves crashing over rocks calmed him, though the waters beneath him were as foreign as the Free Cities themselves. If he closed his eyes he could almost pretend he was standing on the high cliffs of Casterly Rock, his sister begging him not to jump as he teetered on the precipitous edge. He had been so brash then, so sure of his place in the world. Where was his place now that Cersei was gone?

“Ser Jaime?”

He opened his eyes but didn’t turn. He’d prefer her to not see him like this, morose and sullen. She should be celebrating their queen’s victory with her family and her men, not attending to his grief. _She couldn’t possibly understand_ , he told himself bitterly. _No one could_.

He heard her boots on the hard stone as she came closer, stopping just inside the doors that led back into the room. Jaime still didn’t turn. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, watching the blue-black of the water fade into the dusk beyond. 

“Is there anything I can do?”

“You can leave me alone,” he snapped. Her boot scuffed the stone as she shuffled, probably surprised by his harsh tone. _Another promise broken_ , he sneered.

“I don’t feel you should be alone.” 

He whirled on her then, his sorrow easily replaced by anger. How dare she pity him! “What do you think I’ll do, my lady? Throw myself from this balcony in grief?”

“My mother did.”

Her blunt and honest confession brought him up short. The anger left him, leaving only a bitter pool of resentment in his chest. He wasn’t sure who the feeling was for. Cersei maybe. She was gone -- his twin, his other half, had left this world without him. He felt lost, adrift in the anguish that consumed him from the moment Selwyn had handed him the parchment. Thankfully, Brienne’s father had done so in private, allowing Jaime to learn the news away from the prying eyes of the Lords of the Stormlands. Many of them still didn’t trust him, but none would oppose Selwyn Tarth’s word. 

He’d left Brienne behind, only vaguely hearing her father tell her quietly to let him go. Jaime wondered how long she’d waited before she went looking for him. Knowing her, it had likely been mere moments. He stared into her blue eyes now, searching for some sort of anchor in the storm. A thousand words passed between them in an instant, and Jaime knew he didn’t have to hide from her. Moreover, he found he didn’t _want_ to hide from her. He wanted her to know everything, every dark secret and deep desire, and in turn he craved to learn more of her as well. 

“Let’s go inside,” he gestured toward the room behind her, all trace of irritation gone from his tone. “At least in there we’ll be out of the wind.” He closed the doors behind him and settled back against them as Brienne moved to lean against the darkened hearth. After a few moments of contemplative silence, Jaime cleared his throat. “Your mother?”

“It was after Gal...after my brother died,” she answered. Her tone was even and calm, but he could see how much it was affecting her to speak about something so very personal. He wondered if she’d ever gotten the chance to talk about it. He guessed not. “I was very young at the time and didn’t quite understand what was going on. It wasn’t until I was much older and the dreams started that I pieced together what had happened.”

“You dreamed of your mother’s death?”

She shrugged. “After a fashion. I was there the day my brother drowned in Anchor Cove, but I had blocked it out. Then, one night when I was about twelve, I started having these dreams. I would see Galladon's face beneath the water just before hearing a woman's scream.” She sighed and pushed away from the wall. “When I asked my father, he initially brushed it off as childish nightmares. After a while I guess he realized that I wasn’t dreaming. I was remembering. It was my mother's scream I had been dreaming of as she jumped from her balcony onto the rocks below.”

“That must have been awful for you,” Jaime said. “I was old enough to understand what had happened when my mother died. My father sat Cersei and I down and explained that she had died in the birthing bed, but something had gone terribly wrong. Our new brother wasn’t normal, and it had been his monstrousness that had killed our mother.”

Brienne shook her head. “That’s terrible.” 

“It was, but what was more cruel was the way we treated Tyrion because of our father. I could say we didn’t know any better, but that would be a lie. I knew the way he was treated was wrong, but I couldn’t think of any way to change it.” Jaime felt the shame of those years quite keenly each time he thought of his brother. Tyrion had done nothing wrong, except for being born in the wrong proportions, and for that he was doomed to a life of misery. Jaime hadn’t understood it, but he wouldn’t dare go against his father’s wishes or his sister’s whim. Not publically, anyway. 

“I tried to be kind to him when I could, but I was hardly ever without my sister in those days. Cersei seemed to relish the cruelty; she always wanted to impress father, to prove to him that she was as good as any son and certainly better than a dwarf. But to Tywin, she was a means to securing a better position in the realm and nothing more.” He smirked at Brienne, still clad in her armor even now. “He would never have allowed Cersei to even _look_ at a sword, much less wield one.”

“More’s the pity,” Brienne returned. “I have a feeling she would have made an excellent swordsman. She was a very cunning and perceptive woman.” 

The compliment - for it could be nothing else coming from Brienne - caught Jaime by surprise and he stared at her in wonder. Her cheeks reddened under his scrutiny and she made for the door. She hesitated there for a moment, then licked her dry lips as she turned her head for one last parting word. “I’m sorry. For your pain, I mean. I can’t say the realm is worse for it, but she was your sister, and I’m sorry that she is gone...for your sake.” She couldn’t meet his eyes as she muttered a quick goodbye and left him to his thoughts.

He stayed in that drafty room until dinnertime. He’d skipped lunch, not that there was much fare at Storm’s End at the moment. The ex-Lord of Tarth was still trying to coordinate everything, and they had only what remained from the rations they’d eaten on the ships. Still, it was something and Jaime’s stomach was protesting its neglect.

He found the great hall easily enough; Storm’s End wasn’t built like the other lordly manors of the south. Jaime recalled Casterly Rock sprawled atop a cliff face, its majesty visible even from the Feastfires. By contrast Storm’s End was simple, an imposing edifice to be sure but built to combat the fierce storms that had given the castle its name. The entire estate consisted of a large curtain wall that circumvented a drum tower, its parapets rising to an impressive height. The great hall was situated on the ground floor, just beyond the large open entrance hall. The back wall curved outward, and a long table was sat atop a raised dais at the rear of the room, the banner of House Tarth already hanging prominently above it. Rows of tables stretched in either direction from the double doors, though only the first two were occupied at the moment.

Lord Selwyn sat in the center chair at the high table, his head bent in conversation with a man to his left. On his right sat Brienne, her keen eyes already on Jaime as he walked in and made his way up to the steps. He bowed in greeting to the Lord of the Stormlands, then turned to sit at the long table to his right.

“Ser Jaime,” Lord Selwyn’s voice boomed, causing him to turn back abruptly. “Sup with us, please.” He gestured to the empty chair on Brienne’s right hand side. Jaime was aware of several sets of eyes on him as he ascended the shallow steps and made his way around the table.

“Thank you, my lord,” Jaime returned as he settled into the plush chair. All of the chairs at the high table were quite extravagant, he noted, cushioned with the finest black velvet and inlaid with golden studs. _No doubt Renly’s touch_ , Jaime thought wryly, though he wisely kept it to himself. A few moments later his plate was delivered by some of the squires that had been conscripted into service work until the smallfolk could be organized. It seemed someone had gone fishing during his short absence, and Jaime’s mouth watered at the sight of the large filet in front of him. A hunk of bread had been set in a pool of rich, brown gravy and he began dunking it and biting small portions off as Lord Selwyn resumed his conversation with the man next to him.

Thankfully the fish was flaky enough to come apart with his one-handed use of the fork. It would have been quite embarrassing to reenact their dinner with Lord Bolton. Still, Jaime saw Brienne watching him carefully and he wanted to snap at her, to tell her he wasn’t an invalid and he could do it himself. He quelled the impulse quickly; it would win him no points with the Lords of the Stormlands if he barked at her in front of everyone, especially her father. But more than that, Jaime had been trying to make a concerted effort to speak to her only with respect as she deserved. She was his friend - probably his only friend - and though he might tease her in the comfort of their private conversations he didn’t want to do anything that might bring her discomfort or embarrassment in the eyes of others.

Lord Selwyn turned to him after a few moments and jabbed at Jaime’s plate with his fork. “How is your dinner, Ser Jaime?”

“After weeks of sea rations, this is a meal fit for the gods,” he joked. “I must commend the cooks.”

The man on Lord Selwyn’s other side leaned forward curiously. “Have you ever had Bay Snapper, Ser Jaime?”

Jaime was sure he must have at some point, but he couldn’t recall. In the interest of being amicable, he allowed himself a small lie. “I don’t believe so. Is it quite abundant on the eastern coast?”

“Quite,” the lord - for he could be nothing less in his fine waistcoat and trousers - nodded. “My family owns one of the largest fisheries in the Stormlands.”

Jaime wished he’d paid more attention when he was younger. Tyrion had a knack for remembering things like house names and sigils whereas Jaime had been more interested the tales of valiant knights and getting outside to practice his swordplay. 

“Forgive me, my lord,” he said finally, “but I did not catch your name.”

“Casper Wylde,” he answered proudly. “Lord of Rain House.”

“A pleasure, my lord.” Jaime raised his goblet in salute. Wylde did the same. Jaime had heard of the house, of course. There had been a Wylde on Daeron II Targaryen’s Kingsguard a hundred years ago. Beyond that, though, he could not recall hearing the name before. He supposed that, as a newly sworn member of the Stormlands, he would need to spend time learning its noble houses. He would have to speak to Brienne about it later.

“Brienne,” Selwyn took up the conversation as Jaime and Lord Wylde returned to their meals, “when will you be returning to Tarth?”

“Tomorrow, if possible,” she answered. “There’s much to be done.”

“Very well. I would like to see you in my solar after supper to discuss arrangements.”

“Yes, Father.”

And then she fell silent. Jaime knew she wasn’t much for small talk, but he thought she might have more to say to the father she hadn’t seen in nearly seven years. He wondered if it was his presence or Lord Wylde’s that kept her quiet, head turned down to finish her meal. She hated court, he knew that of course, but this was hardly the viper’s nest that King’s Landing had been all those years ago. She’d managed well enough until he’d gotten her out, and had even survived an encounter with Cersei without stumbling or saying the wrong thing. Jaime sometimes forgot that, underneath the armor and superb swordsmanship, she was still a highborn lady.

He decided to try and draw her out of her self-imposed silence. “And your dinner, my lady?”

“It’s good,” she said quickly, but didn’t elaborate. Jaime stifled a smile and turned back to his half-eaten filet as he continued.

“This reminds me of our last meal together in Harrenhall.” His voice was so quiet he was sure only her father could hear, but she shot him a reproachful glare anyway. 

“I’d rather hope this meal turns out better than that one.”

Jaime couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up in him. A few of the men closest to the steps looked at him curiously. “Of that I think we can be assured.” He was feeling in higher spirits now that his belly was full, and he could see that Brienne was at least happy to see him so relaxed, even if she wasn’t quite enjoying herself. He would take what he could get.

Once dinner was over, Jaime walked with Brienne to her father’s solar and took up position to wait outside until she was finished. She very nearly rolled her eyes at his posturing. 

“I don’t need a guard, Ser Jaime. I hardly think my life is in danger within these walls.”

_Old habits die hard_ , he thought to himself. Aloud, he said, “Very well. Then I’ll retire for the evening. I’ll see you at breakfast, my lady.” He bowed and turned to walk back down the hall, trying to ignore the way her blue eyes burned into his back as he did. 

He wandered the upper levels for a while before returning to the room he’d found before. Renly Baratheon had furnished every guest room with large beds and soft sheets, dusty though it all was. It took Jaime a while to remove his own armor, but he didn’t fancy clearing the room of its years’ of neglect while still fully clad in his mail. The task took nearly an hour, and it wasn’t as clean as he would like, but it would suffice for one night. Brienne had said they were to make for Tarth in the morning, and so Jaime resigned himself to musty sheets and flat pillows as he laid down to sleep. 

Thoughts of Cersei plagued him into the wee hours, and not even the comforting shush of the waves below his open window was enough to lull him. Some time after the moon had passed overhead and the candle he’d lit had burned down, he felt his cheeks grow damp with tears and he turned to muffle the rather sudden sobs that erupted from him. Foolishly, he wished for his door to open, for Brienne to come to him now so that he could feel her arms around him again and allow her to comfort him. But she was likely already asleep in her own bed, her dreams far from his own hellish nightmares. Each time he closed his eyes he could see Cersei dying in the Red Keep, her green eyes pleading with him to save her. But even if he’d been there he couldn’t have. Not without losing his own life to the Dragon Queen.

He tossed and turned most of the night, and by the time the dark sky began turning he had given up on getting any rest at all. He stood and studied his armor, debating on wearing it at all today. It was unlikely he would need it, but he had no clothes except the filthy ones he wore now. He was in sore need of a good tailor and a deep purse, though it would be hard to find either right now. Jaime stretched out the kinks in his tired muscles and decided to put his armor back on after all. It took a while to do it one handed, and there were some straps he could not tighten on his own, but by the time the sun was peeking over the curtain wall he was mostly presentable.

He found a squire gulping down hot porridge at the base of the stairs and asked him for assistance. The boy glanced up from his bowl, sneered and promptly ignored him. Jaime fumed.

“Did you hear me, lad? I said I require assistance.”

“I heard ye,” he said around a mouthful, “just don’t care. Don’t matter who you swear to, you’ll always be a Lannister.”

Jaime tried to recall if he’d ever been spoken to by someone of such a low rank before. He didn’t think so. Most people had trembled before the name Lannister and scrambled to curry favor with the lions. But a dragon ruled now, and lions were no more than carrion for her children. No one feared their sharp claws any longer.

He was so flustered by the boy’s response that he didn’t notice the man standing just off to the side of the staircase. As the squire went back to his meal, the man stepped forward. He was of a height with Jaime, but his face was clean shaven. His black hair was flecked with silver and trimmed neatly just above his ears. He had storm gray eyes and a hawkish nose that turned down slightly at the tip. 

Jaime didn’t know him, but the boy certainly did. He scrambled to his feet hastily and sketched a sloppy bow. “Lord Peasebury,” he greeted.

“Are you a squire?” the man asked, his voice a nasally tenor that oozed nobility. 

The boy sputtered. “M-my lord?”

The lord repeated his question slowly and clearly. “Are. You. A. Squire?”

“Y-yes, m’lord.”

“And is Ser Jaime a knight of the realm?”

At this the boy’s eyes cut over to Jaime angrily, then back again. “Yes, Ser.”

“If you wish to remain a squire, then you would do well to remember what your duties are. Assist him with his armor.” Peasebury waited with an arched brow as the boy set his bowl down and tightened the straps around Jaime’s armor. He tugged so tightly that Jaime fought to remain still, but he refused to show any discomfort. Finally, when the boy was done, Peasebury cuffed his head and sent him on his way.

“Thank you for your assistance, my lord,” Jaime nodded in thanks. “Good help is hard to find these days.”

Peasebury’s lips quirked ever so slightly and inclined his head toward the great hall. Jaime followed. “Quite.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Will you and the Lady Brienne be returning to Tarth soon?”

“Today, I believe. She is eager for the trip.”

The older lord nodded at this. “She hasn’t been home in nearly seven years. It’s a wonder her father let her play at being a warrior for so long.”

“Lady Brienne does not _play_ at anything,” Jaime returned sharply, any trace of their brief friendliness gone. “She is a great warrior. Her actions in the North saved lives.”

“And now it is time for her to do her duty as her father’s sole heir. I hear he already has some of the lesser lords asking for her hand. I wonder how long it will take for him to make a match for her.” Peasebury’s tone was almost teasing, malicious in a way that Jaime knew well. Cersei could do that, too -- insinuate awful things in the midst of seemingly polite and droll conversation.

Jaime ground his teeth together and resisted the urge to clench his fist instead. “I imagine none of them are strong enough to defeat her in combat. The lady and her father agreed to that term some years ago, I’m afraid.”

Peasebury drew up short just before the doors to the great hall. “Then for that I must be grateful.”

Jaime wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the man’s reasoning, but his own curiosity got the better of him. “May I ask why, my lord?”

“Because the Lords of the Stormlands have enough to deal with without worrying about a lion vying for a spot in Lady Tarth’s bed.” Peasebury left him there alone to chew on those words. Jaime thought they tasted bitter. Was that what they thought he was doing? Was that what Lord Selwyn thought he was doing? Surely not, Jaime thought, or else he’d have dismissed Jaime back in Winterfell. No matter Jaime’s feelings on the matter, Brienne deserved more than an old, disgraced, landless knight.

“Ser Jaime?”

Brienne’s voice startled him, and he turned quickly at her approach. Lord Peasebury’s words still echoed in his ears and for once he found himself without a thing to say to her. Luckily -- or unluckily, as the case may be -- she noticed the dark circles under his eyes immediately.

“You didn’t sleep well.”

“I’ve always had difficulty adjusting to new places,” he told her easily. It wasn’t a lie, precisely, though he still felt bad for it. “Once we get settled, I will find rest.”

Her look told him his words hadn’t convinced. She knew what troubled him now and he could tell she wanted to ask him about it, but Jaime didn’t want to reopen the wounds so soon after he’d closed them over with his weeping. With a grand flourish of his left hand (because his right was no longer suited for such things) he motioned for her to precede him into the great hall.

“After you, my lady.”

Breakfast was a quiet affair at the high table, for which Jaime was grateful. More than once he glanced up only to find Peasebury’s cold, calculating eyes on him. Each time Jaime would glance back down at his plate as though it held the answers to every question his heart could ever ask. Finally, when both of their bellies were full, Brienne asked him to accompany her to the docks.

“Father has arranged a farewell surprise,” she told him. “Have you everything?”

Jaime wanted to laugh at her ridiculous question. He had nothing save the armor on his back and the sword at his hip. All of his worldly possessions had either been destroyed or lost in the ransack that had no doubt taken place when Daenerys’ forces had abandoned Casterly Rock. 

Instead of pointing out her misstep, however, he just nodded. “I am ready to see Tarth, my lady. I have heard wondrous things about it.”

Brienne just pressed her lips together and led him out of the great hall. Jaime couldn’t help but cast one last look over his shoulder. Lord Peasebury was deep in conversation with Lord Wylde, but neither man looked terribly pleased with the arrangement. Jaime could guess what they they were talking about, and it was confirmed a moment later when their eyes lifted to follow Brienne out of the room. Something urged him to go back inside and demand they stop their conspiring, to protect her honor the way she had safeguarded his. But the gesture would be neither welcome nor appreciated by the lady, so he remained at her side as they walked through the entrance hall and out into the courtyard.

The walk to the docks was shorter than Jaime remembered, or perhaps there was just more to look at now. People milled about, shoring up buildings and setting things to rights. Jaime didn’t imagine it would take Lord Selwyn any time at all to have Storm’s End put together again. The sound of children laughing caught him by surprise, and he had to turn aside as two young boys dashed down the frost-slick stones toward the castle keep. 

Lord Selwyn was waiting at the entrance to the docks with a small contingent of men and women. Brienne didn’t seem surprised to see them, and so Jaime paid them no mind. He came to a stop as Lord Selwyn embraced his daughter firmly before wrapping a strong arm about her shoulders.

“I’ve just gotten you back and now I’m sending you away again,” he said sadly.

“Not away, Father,” Brienne corrected gently. “Home.”

“Yes,” Selwyn beamed. “Home. Come, I must show you something.”

Jaime followed several paces behind the pair, taking in the sights and smells of the docks at work. At the end of the row, Selwyn’s ship stood proudly in dock, a lord over all of the other ships moored in Storm’s End. But one in particular caught Jaime’s eye, and it was this one that Selwyn brought Brienne to.

It was a beautiful caravel with pointed sails and planks made of rich pine. Atop the highest mast the banner of Tarth flew proudly, its sunbursts and crescent moons waving in the crisp morning breeze. Jaime knew very little about ships, but even he could see the craftsmanship that had gone into creating such a magnificent gift.

“I had her built for your name day a few years ago,” Lord Selwyn admitted. “I had hoped to see you return home after your run in with Lord Bolton’s men.”

Brienne looked torn between guilt for the pain she’d caused her father and the pride of the mission that ultimately led to the return of Lady Sansa to Winterfell. Finally, she seemed to settle on, “It’s wonderful, Father. Thank you.”

“She’ll need a name, of course,” Selwyn grinned, “but that can wait for another day. The crew is ready to return to Tarth at your command. I have sent word ahead of your arrival.”

Brienne embraced her father again, and Jaime looked away to give them at least the appearance of privacy. When they parted, Selwyn whispered something to her. Brienne stiffened, glanced at Jaime for several long seconds, then turned to board the ship. 

Selwyn stepped closer to Jaime and extended his hand. His left hand, Jaime noted with a touch of astonishment. He took it.

“Ser Jaime, it was an honor to meet you. I trust you will serve my daughter well.”

“Of course, my lord,” Jaime answered easily. 

“You love her, don’t you?”

Jaime dropped his hand back to his side in surprise. He didn’t bother denying the older man’s words; he couldn’t. Brienne might not see the full depth of Jaime’s growing affections, but that didn’t mean others were blind as well. Even a lord he’d never met before could see it. Her father apparently hadn’t been fooled either. 

“My lord, I -”

“It’s alright,” Selwyn smiled. “In another time, I would have dreamed of such a match.”

Jaime sneered derisively. “Not much of a match now. I am a landless, one-handed knight with nothing to offer her. Not to mention there’s more stain on my name than can ever be erased, no matter how many good deeds I do. She deserves someone worthy of her.”

“She loves you, too. I can see it in her eyes.” He glanced up at the deck of the caravel where Brienne was inspecting the forecastle, then back at Jaime. “My daughter has always been of her own mind. I tried three times to see her wed, and three times I failed her. I resigned long ago to leave it up to her, so I will not meddle. But may I give you some advice, from an old man with more than his fair share of heartache?” He waited for Jaime’s stiff nod before continuing. “Brienne closed herself off from the world after her brother and mother died. The string of failed betrothals did little to help the matter. But these last few days, seeing her with you? She’s happy in your presence, Ser Jaime. Speaking as a father, that is worth more than all the sapphires in the world.”

Jaime’s head spun under the weight of Selwyn’s words. He knew Brienne cared for him -- they were friends -- but he wouldn’t let himself dare hope for anything more. Even if she never returned his affections, Jaime had contented himself to a life at her side. It was more than he deserved, and he could think of no better way to live out the rest of his days. But he was still a man, and Jaime felt a thrill of hope cut through him at hearing Selwyn’s words.

Satisfied that he’d been heard, Selwyn clapped Jaime’s shoulder firmly and stepped back. “Fair winds, Ser Jaime. I look forward to the first raven from Tarth.”

Jaime felt Brienne’s eyes on him as he walked up the gangplank to the deck of the ship. As he stopped by her side, he could see she wanted to ask him what had been said, though her honor wouldn’t allow her to pry. Jaime gave her his best smile, hoping to reassure her that all was well. It worked.

One of the crew stopped a few paces from them and gave a curt bow. “Shall we set sail for Tarth, my lady?” he asked.

Brienne nodded, a deep drop of her chin. Jaime noted that it had begun to wobble ever so slightly, as it often did when she was trying to repress a strong emotion. Then her blue eyes found his and her lips stretched into a brilliant smile.

“Yes,” she said finally. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to end on a hopeful note, but not quite a conclusive one. If there is interest in a sequel to this (re: their life on Tarth) please let me know in the comments. Thank you to everyone who has been reading along! I hope you enjoyed my first foray into GoT fanfic. And a happy Premiere Day to you all tomorrow!


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